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THE   GIRLS   CAME   TRIPPIN(i    DOWN    IN    THEIR   DAINTY    EVENING    DRESSES 


O  A  K  L  E  I  G  H 


BY 

ELLEN  DOUGLAS  DELAND 

// 

ILLUSTRATED    BY 

ALICE    BARBER   STEPHENS 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1898 


Copyright,  1895,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 
All  rights  reserved. 


TO 

MY   SISTERS 


912717 


ILLUSTEATIOI!^S 


"the    GinLS    CAME    TRIPPING    DOWN    IN    THEIR    DAINTY 

EVENING  dresses" Frontispiece 

"  JACK   LAY   AT   FULL    LENGTH   ON    THE   GRASS  "...    Facing  page         2 
"  MISS  TRINKETT  TOOK   AN  AFFECTIONATE   FAREWELL  THE 

NEXT   DAY  " '« 

"  '  YOUR  VOICE  SOUNDS  SORT  OF  UNNATURAL,  TOO,'  ADDED 

MRS.  PARKER" <« 

"  *  CYNTHY   FRANKLIN,   IT'S    MORE    THAN    TIME    YOU    HAD 

A   mother'  " " 

"  '  I   don't   LIKE   HER,  AND    I    WON't  '" "                  52 

"'you   ARE  A  PERFECT  DEAR  !'   SHE    WHISPERED.      *  EV- 
ERYTHING  IS   NICER   SINCE   Y'OU   CAME  '"....  "                 68 
"then   they   STARTED    HOME,  CARRYING    THE    CUSHIONS 

BETWEEN   THEM  " "                  gO 

*'  '  I   WANT   TO    KNOW  !'    SHE    EXCLAIMED,  DRAWING   OFF 

HER   OLD   GLOVES " *'      '           gS 

THE   START   FROM   OAKLEIGH "               102 

"*WE    SHALL   SINK    IP   THIS   GOES   ON,'  SHE    SAID  "    .       .  "               II4 
"  POOR   BOB  !    HIS   JOY   HAD    BEEN    QUICKLY   TURNED   TO 

MOURNING " «'              14Q 

"'don't   HOLD   AIY   ARM   SO   TIGHT;    IT   HURTS'"        .       .  "               158 
"  CYNTHIA    CRIED    UNTIL    HER   EYES    SMARTED    AND    HER 

HEAD   ached" «               16(5 

"' OH,  NEAL,  won't   YOU    COME   BACK?'" "              184 

"  'l  HOPE  THEE  IS  NEITHER  EXTRAVAGANT  NOR  LAZY  '  "  "               196 

"  SHE   FOUND   HER   PERFECTLY   CONSCIOUS  "        .       .       .       .  "               204 

*"  there!      LOOK,  my   own   rag  DOLL  !'  " "               214 

"'l   WANT  TO   SPEAK  TO  YOU,  CYNTH '  " "              232 


OAKLEIGH 


"      CHAPTER   I 

It  was  a  large  house,  standing  well  back  from  the 
broad  highway  that  leads  from  Brenton  to  Pelham — so  far 
back,  indeed,  and  at  the  end  of  such  a  long,  shady  drive, 
that  it  could  not  be  seen  for  some  few  minutes  after  turn- 
ing in  from  the  road. 

The  approach  was  pretty,  the  avenue  winding  through 
the  trees,  with  an  occasional  glimpse  of  the  meadows  be- 
yond. The  road  forked  where  the  trees  ended,  and  en- 
circled the  lawn,  or  the  "heater-piece,"  as  the  family 
called  it,  it  being  in  the  exact  shape  of  a  flat-iron.  The 
house  stood  on  high  ground,  and  there  were  no  trees  very 
near. 

It  was  a  white  house,  with  green  blinds,  solid  and  sub- 
stantial looking.  The  roof  of  the  piazza  was  upheld  by 
tall  white  columns,  and  vines  growing  at  either  end  re- 
lieved the  bareness.  On  the  southern  side  of  the  house  a 
small  conservatory  had  been  added.  On  the  other  side 
the  ground  sloped  to  the  Charles  Paver,  though  in  summer 
one  could  only  see  the  water  from  the  upper  windows, 
because  of  the  trees  which  grew  so  thick  upon  the  banks. 
1 


This  was  Oakleigh,  the  homo  of  the  Franklins,  so  named 
because  of  a  giant  oakiti^e  which  spread  its  huge  branches 
not  .fa.-:  horn  the  Bach  of  the  hoi^se. 

As  to  the  Franklins,  th6re  were  five  of  them,  and  they 
were  all  assembled  on  the  front  porch. 

Though  it  was  the  last  day  of  April,  spring  was  very 
early  for  Massachusetts  this  year,  and  the  day  was  warm 
and  clear,  suggesting  summer  and  delightful  possibilities 
of  out-door  fun. 

Edith,  the  eldest,  sat  with  her  work.  It  was  unusual 
work  for  a  girl  of  barely  sixteen.  A  large,  old-fashioned 
basket  was  on  the  floor  by  her  side,  with  piles  of  chil- 
dren's clothes  in  it,  and  she  was  slowly  and  laboriously 
darning  a  stocking  over  a  china  egg. 

The  children  had  no  mother,  and  a  good  deal  devolved 
upon  Edith. 

Jack  and  Cynthia,  the  twins,  came  next  in  age,  and 
they  were  just  fourteen.  They  looked  alike,  though  Jack 
was  much  the  taller  of  the  two,  and  his  hair  did  not  curl 
as  tightly  as  Cynthia's.  She  sat  on  the  step  of  the  piazza. 
Her  sailor-hat  was  cast  on  the  ground  at  her  feet,  and  her 
pretty  golden-brown  hair  was,  as  usual,  somewhat  awry. 

It  was  one  of  the  trials  of  Edith's  life  that  Cynthia's  hair 
would  not  keep  smooth. 

Jack  lay  at  full  length  on  the  grass,  sometimes  flat  on 
his  back,  staring  at  '^the  sky,  sometimes  rolling  over,  the 
more  easily  to  address  his  sisters. 

Jack  had  a  project  in  his  mind,  and  he  was  very  much  in 
earnest.  Cynthia,  of  course,  was  already  on  his  side — she 
had  known  of  it  from  the  first  moment  the  idea  popped  into 
his  head,  but  Edith  had  just  been  told,  and  she  needed  con- 
vincing. 


Janet  and  Willy,  "the  children,"  were  playing  at  the 
other  end  of  the  porch.  They  were  only  six  and  five,  and 
did  not  count  in  the  family  discussions. 

"  There's  money  in  it,  I'm  sure,"  said  Jack,  "  and  if  I 
can  only  get  father  to  agree  with  me  and  advance  some 
money,  I  can  pay  him  back  in  less  than  a  year." 

"  Papa  hasn't  much  money  to  spare  just  now,"  said 
Edith,  "  and  I  have  always  heard  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  risk  about  raising  chickens  from  an  incubator." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  returned  Jack,  with  an  air  of  lofty  au- 
thority, "  allow  me  to  say  that  you  don't  know  much  about 
it.  I've  been  reading  up  hens  for  two  days,  and  I  find 
that,  allowing  for  all  risks — bad  eggs,  inexperience,  weasels 
and  skunks  and  diseases,  you're  sure  to  make  some  profit 
at  the  end  of  a  year.  Now,  I'm  late  in  thinking  of  it,  I 
know.  To-morrow  is  the  1st  of  May,  and  I  couldn't  get 
more  than  three  hatches  this  summer,  but  that  would  prob- 
ably pay  the  cost  of  the  incubator.  I  can  get  a  first-rate 
one  for  forty  dollars,  and  I  can  buy  one  '  brooder.'  If  I 
bought  one  I  could  make  the  others  like  it." 

"  But  your  eggs,"  said  Edith.  "  You  would  have  to  pay 
a  great  deal  for  eggs." 

"  Eggs  would  be  about  five  or  six  dollars  a  hundred,  and 
it  takes  two  hundred  to  fill  the  machine.  I  should  want 
to  get  a  fine  breed,  of  course — Brahmas  or  Cochins  or  Leg- 
horns, probably — and  they  cost  more  ;  but,  you  see,  when 
they  begin  to  lay,  there  comes  my  money  right  back  to 
me." 

"  When  they  do  !"  said  Edith,  sceptically. 

"  Edith,  don't  be  so  mean,"  cried  Cynthia.  "  Jack  wants 
to  begin  to  make  money,  and  I  think  he's  right.  I'm  go- 
ing to  help  him  all  I  can,  and  we  want  you  to  be  on  our 


side  to  help  talk  over  papa.  He  is  always  telling  Jack 
that  he'll  soon  have  to  begin  to  work,  and  now  here's  a 
chance." 

"  Papa  wants  Jack  to  make  some  money  to  help  support 
US  when  he  is  old  enough,  but  he  wants  him  to  finish  his 
education  first,  of  course.  And  I  am  sure  he  doesn't  want 
him  to  lay  out  a  lot  of  money,  as  he  would  have  to  do  in 
raising  hens." 

"  That's  just  like  a  girl,"  said  Jack,  scornfully.  *'  Don't 
you  know  that  there's  always  a  lot  of  risk  in  anything  you 
undertake,  and  you've  got  to  take  the  chances  ?  There  are 
very  few  things  you  don't  have  to  put  money  into." 

"  Of  course,  for  a  grown  man ;  but  a  boy  of  your  age 
ought  to  work  for  a  salary,  or  something  of  that  sort — not 
go  investing." 

Cynthia  stirred  uneasily.  She  knew  this  was  just  the 
wrong  thing  to  say  to  Jack.  Unfortunately,  Edith  was 
so  apt  to  say  the  wrong  thing. 

Jack  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"There's  no  use  arguing  with  girls.  I  may  be  a  'boy 
of  my  age,'  but  I've  got  some  sense,  and  I  know  there's 
money  in  this.  I'm  not  going  to  say  another  word  about 
it  to  anybody  until  father  comes  home,  and  I  can  talk  it 
over  with  him." 

And  Jack  walked  off  around  the  corner  of  the  house, 
whistling  to  Ben  and  Chester,  the  two  big  setters,  to  fol- 
low him,  which  they  did  with  joyful  alacrity. 

"  There  !"  exclaimed  Cynthia,  "  now  he's  gone  off  mad. 
I  don't  see  why  you  said  that,  Edith." 

"  Said  what  ?  I'm  sure  it  is  true.  The  idea  of  a  boy  of 
his  age — " 

"  There  you  go  again.     Jack  may  be  young,  but  he  is 


trying  awfully  hard  to  help  papa,  and  you  needn't  go  twit- 
ting him  about  his  age." 

"  I'm  sure  I  never  meant  to  twit  him,"  said  Edith, ''  and 
I  think  he's  very  touchy.  But  it  is  half-past  four,  Cyn- 
thia, and  time  to  go  meet  papa.  Won't  you  be  sure  to 
brush  your  hair  and  put  on  a  fresh  necktie  or  something  ? 
You  do  look  so  untidy.  That  skirt  is  all  frayed  out 
around  the  bottom." 

"  Oh,  bother  my  hair  and  my  necktie,  and  everything 
else!"  cried  Cynthia,  though  with  perfect  good -nature. 
*'  Edith,  you  are  such  a  fuss  1     Shall  I  go  meet  papa  ?" 

"  No,  I'll  go ;  but  I  wish  you  would  order  the  horse. 
Now,  Cynthia,  don't  forget  your  hair,  will  you?  Papa 
hates  to  see  you  untidy." 

For  answer  Cynthia  banged  the  screen-door  as  she  dis- 
appeared into  the  house  and  walked  through  the  wide  hall, 
humming  as  she  went. 

<'  What  shall  I  do  with  these  children  ?"  sighed  Edith 
to  herself,  as  she  laid  down  the  stocking,  mended  at  last, 
and  prepared  to  put  up  her  work.  "  I'm  sure  I  do  the 
best  I  can,  and  what  I  think  our  mother  would  have 
liked;  but  it's  very  hard.  If  Cynthia  only  would  be 
more  neat !" 

A  loud  crash  interrupted  her  thoughts.  At  the  end  of 
the  piazza,  where  the  children  had  been  playing,  was  a 
mass  of  chairs  and  tables,  while  from  the  midst  of  the 
confusion  came  roars  of  pain,  anger,  and  fright. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  cried  Edith,  running  to  the 
scene,  and  overturning  her  work-basket  in  her  flight. 

It  took  several  minutes  to  extricate  the  screaming  chil- 
dren, set  them  on  their  feet,  and  ascertain  that  no  bones 
were  broken. 


"  Get  the  red  url !"  shrieked  Janet ;  "  that  naughty  boy 
has  killed  me  !  I'm  dead  !  I'm  dead  !     Get  the  red  url !" 

"  It's  no  such  a  thing  !"  shouted  Willy.  "  I  didn't  do 
it,  and  I'm  dead,  too.  TJgh !  I'm  all  bludgy !  Get  the 
red  url !" 

Cynthia  had  witnessed  the  scene  from  the  window,  and 
appeared  just  in  time  with  the  bottle  of  red  oil,  the  pan- 
acea for  all  Franklin  bumps  and  bruises. 

"  AVhat  were  you  doing,  you  naughty  children  ?"  said 
Edith,  as  she  wiped  the  "bludge"  from  Willy's  lip,  and 
found  that  it  came  from  a  very  small  scratch,  while  Janet 
was  scarcely  hurt  at  all. 

"  We  were  only  playing  cars,  and  Willy  would  ride  on 
the  engine,  and  made  it  topple  over,  and — " 

"  It's  no  such  a  thing  !"  interposed  Willy.  "  Girls  don't 
know  nothin'  'bout  steam-cars,  and  Janet  went  and  put  her 
feet  on  the  back  of  my  chair,  and — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  blow  from  Janet's  small  fat 
fist,  which  he  immediately  returned  in  kind,  and  then  both 
began  again  to  scream. 

"You  are  both  as  bad  as  you  can  be,  and  I've  a  good 
mind  to  send  you  to  bed,"  said  Edith,  severely,  shaking 
Janet  as  she  spoke. 

Janet  cast  herself  upon  Cynthia. 

"  Edith's  horrid  to  us  !  She's  so  cross.  Cynthia,  don't 
let  her  send  us  to  bed.  I'm  sorry.  I'm  sorry  I  hit  Willy  ; 
I'm  sorry  we  upset  the  chairs ;  I'm  sorry  for  everything." 

"Well,  here  comes  the  horse,  and  I  must  go,"  said 
Edith.     "  Oh,  look  at  my  basket !" 

And  it  was  indeed  a  sight.  Spools,  scissors,  china 
eggs,  stockings — everything  lay  in  wild  confusion  on  the 
floor. 


"  Never  mind.  I'll  pick  them  up,"  said  Cynthia.  "  Don't 
bother  about  them,  Edith.  The  children  will  help  me. 
Come  along,  Willy  and  Janet.  Let's  see  which  can  find 
the  most  spools." 

Edith  looked  back  doubtfully  as,  having  put  on  her  hat, 
she  got  into  the  carriage.  What  would  her  basket  be  like 
when  she  next  saw  it  ?  But  it  was  kind  of  Cynthia,  and 
how  much  better  Cynthia  managed  the  children  than  she 
did.  What  was  the  reason?  She  was  thinking  it  over 
when  she  heard  her  name  called  loudly  from  behind,  and, 
pulling  in  her  horse  quickly,  she  waited,  wondering  what 
had  happened  now. 

Cynthia  came  flying  down  the  avenue. 

"  Edith,  Edith  !  Wait  a  minute  !  I  forgot  to  tell  you. 
Don't  say  anything  to  papa  about  Jack's  scheme,  will  you  ? 
Let  him  tell  him  himself." 

"  Oh,  Cynthia,  how  you  frightened  me !  I  thought 
something  dreadful  was  the  matter." 

"But  don't,  wilt  you,  Edith?  Promise  !  You  know — 
well,  Edith,  Jack  can  explain  it  so  much  better  him- 
self." 

Cynthia  was  too  kind-hearted  to  tell  Edith  that  she 
would  spoil  it  all  if  she  said  anything  first,  but  Edith  knew 
that  was  what  she  meant.  A  sharp  reply  was  on  her  lips, 
but  she  controlled  herself  in  time. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  I  won't." 

And  then  she  drove  on,  and  Cynthia  went  back  to  the 
house  satisfied. 

Edith  had  a  quick,  impatient  temper,  and  it  was  not  an 
easy  matter  for  her  to  curb  her  tongue.  Her  mother  had 
died  five  years  ago  when  she  was  but  eleven  years  old. 
Then  an  aunt  had  come  to  live  with  them,  but  she  had 


8 


lately  married  and  gone  to  South  America,  and  now  there 
was  no  one  else,  and  Edith  was  considered  old  enough  to 
keep  house  and  look  after  the  children. 

It  would  have  been  more  difficult  had  it  not  been  for 
the  servants,  who  had  lived  with  the  family  long  before 
Edith  was  born.  As  it  was,  it  made  a  good  deal  of  care 
for  the  young  girl,  but  she  wanted  to  do  it,  and  had  her- 
self urged  the  plan,  assuring  her  father  and  aunt  that  she 
was  fully  equal  to  the  task. 

She  enjoyed  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  pouring 
her  father's  coffee,  and  it  pleased  her  to  have  things  just 
as  she  wished  them  about  the  house. 

Edith,  though  a  dear,  lovable  girl,  was  just  a  little  bit 
vain  of  her  own  importance. 

She  was  a  pretty  girl,  very  tall,  with  thick,  dark  hair 
that  waved  naturally  about  the  temples,  but  was  always 
brushed  smoothly  back  into  a  knot,  and  brown  eyes  that 
looked  out  rather  seriously  upon  the  world,  especially  at 
this  moment  when  she  was  driving  down  to  Brenton  to 
meet  her  father,  who  was  coming  out  from  his  business  in 
Boston. 

The  road  wound  through  the  woods,  with  here  and 
there  a  view  of  the  river,  leading  finally  into  the  old  New 
England  town  and  forming  its  main  street. 

Tall  elm-trees  shaded  the  approach  to  the  village,  and 
fine  old  houses,  with  well-kept  lawns  in  front,  were  to  be 
seen  on  either  side. 

The  horse  that  Edith  drove  was  by  no  means  a  fine  one, 
and  the  old  buggy  was  somewhat  unsteady  and  rattled 
alarmingly.  In  other  words,  the  Franklins  were  poor, 
but  they  had  hosts  of  friends,  and  as  Edith  entered  the 
village  she  nodded  right  and  left  to  the  various  people  she 


met.     Every  one  liked  the  Franklins,  and  the  family  had 
lived  at  Oakleigh  for  generations. 

As  she  reached  the  station  the  train  came  in.  A  throng 
of  carriages  filled  the  Lroad  space  in  front,  and  Edith  was 
oblio-ed  to  draw  up  at  some  little  distance  from  the  cars. 
Presently  she  saw  her  father  coming  towards  her,  and 
with  him  was  an  odd  little  figure,  the  sight  of  which  made 
Edith's  heart  sink  with  apprehension. 

"  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear !"  she  exclaimed  to  herself,  "  if  there 
isn't  Aunt  Betsey  1" 

Then  she  shrank  back  into  the  corner  of  the  buggy,  and 
watched  the  amused  glances  that  were  cast  upon  her  rela- 
tive by  all  who  saw  her. 

Miss  Betsey  Trinkett,  of  Wayborough,  was  Edith's  great- 
aunt,  and  constituted  one  of  the  largest  thorns  in  her  side. 
She  was  old,  she  was  odd,  she  was  distinctly  conspicu- 
ous, and  Edith  disliked  above  all  things  to  be  made  con- 
spicuous. 

Miss  Betsey  trotted  along  the  platform  by  her  nephew's 
side,  quite  unconscious  of  the  tumult  she  was  raising  in  the 
breast  of  her  grandniece.  She  was  dressed  in  a  short, 
scant  velveteen  gown  that  might  have  belonged  to  her 
grandmother,  and  a  large  bonnet  of  the  same  date,  from 
which  hung  a  figured  lace  veil.  A  gay  shawl  was  folded 
about  her  slender  shoulders,  and  Mr.  Franklin  carried  her 
carpet-bag  with  the  silver  lock  and  key. 

She  waved  a  welcome  to  Edith  with  a  mittened  hand,  and 
Edith,  recovering  herself,  nodded  in  response. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Aunt  Betsey  ?"  she  said.  "  What  a 
surprise !" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  like  to  surprise  you  now  and  then.  I 
came  up  to  Boston  town  on  business,  and  your  father  in- 


10 


sisted  upon  my  coming  out  to  see  you  all.  In  fact,  I  knew 
he  would,  so  I  just  popped  my  best  cap  and  my  knitting 
into  my  bag,  along  with  some  little  things  for  you  chil- 
dren, and  here  I  am." 

And  she  stepped  nimbly  into  the  buggy,  followed  by 
Mr.  Franklin. 

''  We  shall  be  a  *  Marblehead  couple,' "  he  said,  as  he 
balanced  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  seat  and  took  the 
reins. 

Edith  detested  "  Marblehead  couples  " — otherwise,  driv- 
ing three  on  a  seat — and  she  hid  herself  as  much  as  possi- 
ble in  her  corner,  and  hoped  that  people  would  not  know 
she  was  there. 

Miss  Betsey  chatted  away  with  her  nephew,  and  in  time 
the  three  miles  were  covered,  and  they  turned  into  the 
Oakleigh  drive.  Edith  had  recovered  somewhat  by  this 
time,  having  been  engaged  in  scolding  herself  all  the  way 
from  the  village  for  her  uncordial  feelings.  She  was  even 
able  to  tell  her  aunt  with  perfect  sincerity  that  she  was 
glad  she  had  come.  After  all,  the  old  lady  was  a  dear  old 
soul,  and  devoted  to  her  nephew  and  his  children. 

The  others  welcomed  her  most  cordially.  Aunt  Betsey's 
carpet-bag  always  contained  some  rare  treat  for  the  little 
ones ;  and,  besides,  they  were  a  hospitable  family. 

"  But  come  with  me,  girls,"  said  Miss  Betsey,  myste- 
riously, when  she  had  bestowed  her  gifts  ;  "  there  is  some- 
thing I  want  to  consult  you  about." 

She  trotted  up  the  long  flight  of  stairs  to  her  accustomed 
room  with  the  springiness  of  a  young  girl,  Edith  and 
Cynthia  following  her.  She  closed  the  door  behind  them, 
and  seating  herself  in  the  rocking-chair,  looked  at  them 
solemnly. 


11 


"  Do  you  remark  anything  different  about  my  appear- 
ance ?" 

"  Why,  of  course,  Aunt  Betsey !"  exclaimed  Cynthia. 
"Your  hair." 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know  !  Cynthy,  you  are  very  smart ! 
You  get  it  from  your  great -grandmother  Trinkett,  for 
whom  you  were  named.  Well,  what  do  you  think 
of  it?" 

Edith  had  hastened  to  the  closet,  and  was  opening 
drawers  and  removing  garments  from  the  hooks  in,  appar- 
ently, a  sudden  desire  for  neatness.  In  reality  she  was 
convulsed  with  laughter. 

Cynthia  controlled  herself,  and  replied,  with  gravity  : 

"Did  it  grow  there?" 

Miss  Betsey  rocked  with  satisfaction,  her  hands  folded 
in  her  velveteen  lap. 

"  I  knew  it  was  a  success.  No  one  would  ever  know 
it,  would  they  ?  My  dears,  I  bought  it  to-day  in  Boston 
town!  The  woman  told  me  it  looked  real  naturah  I 
don't  know  as  I  like  the  idea  exactly  of  wearing  other 
people's  hair ;  but  one  has  to  keep  up  with  the  times,  and 
mine  was  getting  very  scant.  Silas  said  to  me  the  other 
night,  said  he, '  Betsey,  strikes  me  your  hair  isn't  as  thick 
as  it  used  to  be.'  That  set  me  thinking,  and  I  remem- 
bered I'd  heard  tell  of  these  frontispieces,  and  I  then  and 
there  made  up  some  business  I'd  have  to  come  up  to  Bos- 
•  ton  town  about,  and  here  I  am.  I  bought  two  while  I 
was  about  it.  The  woman  said  it  was  a  good  plan,  in 
case  one  got  lost  or  rumpled,  and  here  it  is  in  this  box. 
Just  lay  it  away  carefully  for  me,  Cynthy,  my  dear." 

The  old  lady's  thin  and  grayish  locks  had  been  replaced 
by  a  false  front  of  smooth  brown,  with  puffs  at  the  side 


13 


and  a  nice  white  part  of  most  unnatural  straightness 
down  tlie  middle. 

"  You  see,  I  like  to  please  Silas,"  she  continued.  "  I'll 
tell  you  again,  as  I've  told  you  before,  girls,  Silas  Green 
and  I,  we've  been  keeping  steady  company  now  these  forty 
years.  But  I  can't  give  up  the  view  from  my  sitting- 
room  windows  to  go  and  live  at  his  house  on  the  other 
hill,  and  he  can't  give  up  the  view  from  his  best-room 
windows  to  come  and  live  at  my  house.  We've  tried  and 
tried,  and  we  can't  either  of  us  give  up.  And  so  he  just 
comes  every  Sunday  night  to  see  me,  as  he's  done  these 
forty  years,  and  I  guess  it  '11  go  on  so  a  while  longer.  And 
that's  what  makes  me  a  spinster  instead  of  an  old  maid. 
I  wonder,  now,  if  you  know  the  difference  ?" 

The  girls  had  heard  it  a  hundred  times  before,  but  they 
politely  asked  w^hy. 

Miss  Betsey  rocked  more  violently  yet. 

"An  old  maid,  ray  dears,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "is  one 
who  never  had  the  chance  to  change  her  state  in  life.  A 
spinster  is  one  who  has  the  chance  and  prefers  not  to 
make  use  of  it." 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  the  tea-bell. 

Miss  Betsey  hastily  settled  her  cap  over  the  new  front, 
and  they  all  went  down-stairs,  Cynthia  pinching  Edith  to 
express  her  feelings,  and  longing  to  tell  Jack  about  Aunt 
Betsey's  latest. 

But  they  found  Jack  having  an  animated  discussion 
with  his  father,  his  thoughts  on  business  plans  intent. 

Cynthia  anxiously  surveyed  the  two,  and  she  feared 
from  appearances  that  Mr.  Franklin  did  not  intend  to 
yield. 


CHAPTER  II 

They  were  all  in  the  "long  parlor"  after  tea.  It  was  a 
beautiful  room,  extending  the  length  of  the  house,  and  it 
was  large  enough  to  contain  four  windows  and  two  fire- 
places. The  paper  on  the  walls  was  old-fashioned — indeed, 
it  had  been  there  when  the  children's  grandmother  was  a 
gh-1,  and  the  furniture  was  of  equally  early  date. 

It  was  all  handsome,  but  shabby-looking.  A  few  dollars 
wisely  spent  would  have  made  a  vast  difference  in  its  ap- 
pearance ;  but,  unfortunately,  there  were  never  any  dollars 
to  spare. 

However,  the  room  was  comfortable,  and  the  Franklins 
thought  it  the  dearest  place  in  the  world.  They  all  loved 
their  home. 

Jack  had  resumed  the  argument. 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,  Jack !"  said  Mr.  Franklin.  "  It  is 
absurd  for  a  boy  like  you  to  ask  me  for  so  much  mouey. 
Incubators  are  of  no  good,  anyhov/.  Give  me  a  good  old- 
fashioned  hen." 

*' Perhaps,  papa,"  said  Cynthia,  demurely,  "Jack  will 
give  you  a  good  old-fashioned  hen  if  you  let  him  buy  an 
incubator  to  raise  her  with." 

Mr.  Franklin  laughed.  Then  he  grew  very  grave  again, 
even  stern  -  looking,  though  he  was  a  very  kind-hearted 
man  and  a  devoted  father. 

Jack  pursued  the  advantage  given  by  Cynthia's  remark. 

"  There's  no  doubt  about  my  making  something  of  it. 


14 


I  wish  you  would  let  me  try,  father !  I'll  pay  back  what- 
ever you  lend  me.  Indeed  I  will.  It's  only  forty  dollars 
for  the  machine." 

"You  speak  as  if  forty  dollars  grew  on  every  bush. 
I  tell  you  I  haven't  got  the  money  to  spare.  Look  at  the 
place,  going  to  rack  and  ruin  !  Now  let  me  hear  no  more 
about  the  incubator  business.  Jack,  my  boy.  I  know  your 
intentions  are  good.  You  want  to  make  some  money  to 
help  your  poor  old  father,  I  have  no  doubt;  but  if  you 
were  to  argue  from  now  until  the  year  2000  you  could  not 
make  me  believe  there  was  money  in  poultry,  nor  in  any- 
thing else  connected  with  farming." 

Mr.  Franklin  was  very  determined.  He  could  seldom 
be  induced  to  change  his  mind,  and  his  prejudices  were 
very  strong.  Jack's  face  fell.  It  was  of  no  use;  he 
would  have  to  give  it  up. 

Presently  Aunt  Betsey  spoke.  She  had  been  an  atten- 
tive listener  to  the  conversation,  and  now  she  settled  her- 
self anew  in  her  rocking-chair,  and  folded  her  hands  in 
the  way  she  always  did  when  she  had  something  of  es- 
pecial importance  to  say. 

"  How  much  money  do  you  need,  Jackie  ?  Forty  dol- 
lars, did  you  say  ?" 

"Forty  for  the  incubator,"  said  Jack,  rather  shortly. 
He  felt  like  crying,  though  he  was  a  boy,  and  he  wished 
Aunt  Betsey  would  not  question  him. 

"  And  then  you  must  buy  the  eggs,"  put  in  Cynthia. 

"  And  what  do  the  chicks  live  in  after  they  come  out  ?" 
asked  Miss  Trinkett,  who  knew  something  about  farming, 
and  with  all  her  eccentricities  was  very  practical. 

"  They  live  in  brooders,"  said  Jack,  warming  to  his  be- 
loved subject.     "  If  I  could  buy  one  brooder  for  a  pattern 


15 


I  could  make  others  like  it.  I'd  liave  to  fence  off  places 
for  the  chicks  to  run  in,  and  that  would  take  a  little 
money.  I  suppose  I'd  have  to  have  fifty-five  or  sixty  dol- 
lars to  start  nicely  with  and  have  things  in  good  shape." 

"Nephew  John,"  said  Miss  Betsey,  solemnly,  turning  to 
Mr.  Franklin,  "  I  don't  wish  to  interfere  between  parent 
and  child,  it's  not  my  way ;  but  if  you  have  no  other  ob- 
jections to  Jackie's  hen-making  machine — I  forget  its 
outlandish  name — I  am  willing,  in  fact  I'd  be  very  pleased, 
to  advance  him  the  money.     What  do  you  say  to  it  ?" 

Jack  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  Cynthia  enthusiastically 
threw  her  arms  about  x\unt  Betsey's  neck. 

"You  dear  thing  1"  she  whispered.  "And  you  look 
sweet  in  your  new  hair."  Upon  which  Miss  Trinkett 
smiled  complacently. 

Mr.  Franklin  expostulated  at  first,  but  he  was  finally 
persuaded  to  give  his  consent.  After  all.  Aunt  Betsey 
could  do  what  she  liked  with  her  money,  and  Jack's  object 
was  a  good  one.     So  it  was  finally  settled. 

"I  will  lend  you  seventy -five  dollars,"  said  Miss 
Trinkett.  "  You  may  be  obliged  to  pay  more  than  you 
think,  and  it's  well  to  have  a  little  on  hand  in  case  of 
emergencies.  I  must  say  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  the 
machine,  but  you  seem  to  know  what  you  are  talking 
about.  It  does  depress  me  to  think  of  all  those  poor 
little  chicks  running  about  without  any  mother  !  Who's 
to  teach  them  to  scratch  for  worms  ?  Who's  to  call  them 
in  at  night,  or  when  it  rains  ?  Poor  little  orphans,  it  does 
seem  cruel !" 

Jack  was  afraid  that  his  aunt's  feelings  would  overcome 
her  to  such  an  extent  that  she  would  withdraw  her  offer, 
and  he  hastened  to  reassure  her.     He  had  been  to  a  large 


16 


poultry  farm  the  week  before,  and  he  was  confident  that 
all  the  dwellers  there  were  very  happy  and  seemed  to  en- 
joy their  independence. 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Miss  Betsey,  solemnly,  as  she 
looked  from  one  to  the  other.  "  They  get  very  indepen- 
dent without  an  older  person  to  look  after  them.  I  only 
hope  it  won't  come  into  this  family,  that  independent 
feeling." 

The  next  day  Miss  Trinkett  departed,  although  urged  to 
stay  over  Sunday. 

"  No,"  she  said ;  "  if  it  were  any  other  day  but  Saturday 
I  might  stay,  but  I  don't  like  to  be  away  Sunday  night 
on  Silas's  account.  You  know  he  might  get  out  of  the 
way  of  coming  so  regular,  and  I  scarcely  like  to  risk  it. 
You  have  to  be  careful  with  men -folks,  my  dears,  as 
you'll  know  when  you've  seen  as  much  of  them  as  I  have. 
They're  terribly  set  in  their  ways." 

And  then  she  kissed  them  all  good-bye,  promising  to 
send  Jack  the  money  by  an  early  date. 

"  And  a  book  on  raising  poultry  that  my  father  used  to 
consult,"  she  added ;  "  I  always  keep  it  on  the  table  in 
the  best  parlor.  I'll  send  it  by  mail.  It's  wonderful  what 
things  can  go  through  the  post-office  nowadays.  These 
are  times  to  live  in,  I  do  declare,  what  with  chicks  without 
a  mother  and  everything  else." 

Aunt  Betsey  was  true  to  her  word.  During  the  follow- 
ing week  a  package  arrived  most  lightly  tied  up,  and 
addressed  in  an  old-fashioned,  indefinite  hand  to  "  Jackie 
Franklin,  Brenton,  Mass."  Within  was  an  ancient  book 
which  described  the  methods  of  raising  poultry  in  the 
early  days  of  the  century,  and  inside  of  the  book  were 
seventy-five  dollars  in  crisp  new  bank-notes. 


>  '  3   ' 


17 


The  incubator  was  sent  for,  and  very  soon  Jack  was 
embarked  in  the  poultry  business.  There  was  much  to  be 
done,  and  Cynthia  acted  as  partner,  assistant,  and  slave. 
Even  Edith,  for  all  her  early  disapproval,  was  much  in- 
terested. Mr.  Franklin  scoffed,  but  awaited  with  curiosity 
the  first  hatch,  while  as  for  Janet  and  Willy,  they  were 
beside  themselves  with  an  interest  which,  though  well- 
meant,  was  often  troublesome. 

Jack  was  tremendously  in  earnest  with  his  scheme,  and 
even  his  father  was  impressed. 

It  was  a  week  or  two  after  the  installation  of  the  incu- 
bator that  Edith  was  seized  with  what  Cynthia  called  "  one 
of  her  terribly  tidy  fits." 

"  I  am  going  to  do  some  house-cleaning,"  she  announced 
one  beautiful  Saturday  morning,  when  Cynthia  was  hurry- 
inc^  through  her  Monday's  lessons  in  a  wild  desire  to  get 
to  the  river.  "  Cynthia,  you  must  help  me.  We'll  clear 
out  all  the  drawers  and  closets  in  the  'north  room,'  and 
give  away  everything  we  don't  need,  and  then  have 
Martha  clean  the  room." 

"  Oh  no !"  exclaimed  Cynthia ;  "  everything  in  this 
house  is  as  neat  as  a  pin.  And  we  haven't  got  anything  we 
don't  need,  Edith.     And  I  can't.     I  must  go  on  the  river." 

"  You  can  go  afterwards.  You  can  spend  all  the  after- 
noon on  the  river.  This  is  a  splendid  chance  for  house- 
cleaning,  with  the  children  off  for  the  morning.  Come 
along,  Cynthia — there's  a  dear." 

Cynthia  slowly  and  mournfully  followed  Edith  up  the 
stairs.  She  might  have  held  out  and  gone  on  the  river, 
but  she  knew  Edith  would  do  it  alone  if  she  deserted  her, 
and  Cynthia  was  unselfish,  much  as  she  detested  house- 
cleaning. 

2 


18 


"  I  am  going  to  be  very  particular  to-day,"  said  Edith, 
as  she  wiped  the  ornaments  of  the  room  with  her  dusting 
cloth  and  laid  them  on  the  bed  to  be  covered,  and  took 
down  some  of  the  pictures. 

"  More  particular  than  usual  ?" 

"Yes,  ever  so  much.  I've  been  thinking  about  it  a 
great  deal.  In  all  probability  I  shall  always  keep  house 
for  papa,  and  I  mean  to  be  the  very  best  kind  of  a  house- 
keeper. I  am  going  to  make  a  study  of  it.  The  house 
shall  always  be  as  neat  as  it  can  possibly  be,  and  the 
meals  shall  be  perfect.  If  we  only  had  a  little  more  money 
I  would  take  some  cooking  lessons.  I  wonder  if  I  could 
earn  some  money  to  do  it.  Can  you  think  of  any  way, 
Cynthia  ?" 

"Not  a  Avay,"  returned  Cynthia,  with  decision,  "and 
I'm  terribly  sorry  you  are  going  to  be  tidier  than  ever. 
There  will  be  no  peace  for  any  of  us.  "What  difference 
does  it  make  whether  there  are  three  specks  of  dust 
behind  the  left-hand  corner  of  that  picture  ?  No  one 
would  ever  be  any  the  wiser." 

"  Oh,  Cynthia,  that  is  a  horrible  idea,  only  to  have 
things  clean  where  they  are  going  to  be  seen !"  cried 
Edith,  taking  down  the  picture  and  looking  carefully  for 
the  three  specks  of  dust.  "  And  I  wish  you  would  not 
use  a  feather-duster.  That  is  one  of  my  firm  theories, 
never  to  use  a  feather-duster." 

"  I  wish  you  didn't  have  so  many  theories,"  grumbled 
Cynthia,  good-naturedly,  as  she  exchanged  the  censured 
feathers  for  a  cloth. 

"  Then  another  thing,"  pursued  Edith,  from  the  closet 
where  she  was  lifting  down  boxes  and  pulling  out  drawers. 
"  I  am  going  to  be  lovely  with  the  children.     They  are  to 


19 


be  taught  to  obey  me  implicitly,  the  very  minute  I  speak. 
I  am  going  to  train  them  that  way.  I  shall  say  one  word, 
very  gently,  and  that  will  be  enough.  I  have  been  read- 
ing a  book  on  that  very  subject.  The  eldest  sister  made 
up  her  mind  to  do  that,  and  it  worked  splendidly." 

"  I  hope  it  will  this  time,  but  things  are  so  much  easier 
in  a  book  than  out  of  it.  Perhaps  the  children  were  not 
just  like  our  Janet  and  Willy." 

"  They  were  a  great  deal  worse.  Our  children  are  per- 
fect angels  compared  to  them." 

"  Here  they  come  now,  speaking  of  angels,"  announced 
Cynthia,  as  the  tramp  of  small  but  determined  feet  was 
heard  on  the  stairs  and  the  door  burst  open. 

"  Edith,  we've  come  home.    We're  hungry  !"  cried  Janet. 

"  Edith,  we  want  sumpun  to  do,"  said  Willy,  in  a  some- 
what whiny  voice. 

"  Dear  me,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  back !"  ex- 
claimed Edith.  "  I  thought  you  were  going  to  play  out- 
of-doors  all  the  morning." 

"  We're  tired  of  it,  and  we're  terrible  hungry." 

"  An'  we  want  sumpun  to  do." 

"  If  this  isn't  the  most  provoking  thing  !"  cried  Edith, 
wrathfully,  emerging  from  the  closet.  "  I  thought  you 
were  well  out  of  the  way,  and  here  I  am  in  the  midst  of 
house-cleaning !  You  are  the  most  provoking  children — 
don't  touch  that !" 

For  Janet  had  seized  upon  a  box  and  was  investigating 
its  contents. 

"  Go  straight  out  of  this  room,  and  don't  come  near  me 
till  it  is  done." 

"  We  won't  go  !"  they  roared  in  chorus  ;  "  we're  going 
to  stay  and  have  some  fun." 


20 


Edith  walked  up  to  tliem  with  determination  written  on 
her  face  and  grasped  each  child  tightly  by  the  hand. 
The  roars  increased,  and  Cynthia  concluded  that  it  was 
about  time  to  interfere. 

"  Come  down-stairs  with  me,"  she  said,  "  and  I'll  give 
you  some  nice  crackers.  And  very  soon  one  of  the  men 
is  going  over  to  Pelham  to  take  the  farm-horses  to  be 
shod.     Who  would  like  to  go  ?" 

This  idea  was  seized  upon  with  avidity.  The  three  de- 
parted in  search  of  the  crackers  and  quiet  reigned  once 
more.  When  Cynthia  came  back  Edith  said  nothing  for 
a  few  minutes.     Then  she  remarked  : 

"  Those  children  in  the  book  were  not  quite  as  provok- 
ing as  ours,  but  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  begun  right 
away  to  be  gentle.  Somehow,  Cynthia,  you  always  seem 
to  know  just  what  to  say  to  everybody.  I  ^vish  I  did ! 
Janet  and  Willy  both  mind  you  a  great  deal  better  than 
they  do  me." 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  shout  of  joy  from  Cyn- 
thia. 

"  Edith,  Edith,  do  look  at  this  !  Aunt  Betsey's  extra 
false  front !  She  left  it  behind.  Don't  you  know  she  told 
me  to  put  it  away  ?  It's  a  wonder  she  hasn't  sent  for  it. 
There,  look !" 

Edith  turned  with  a  brush  in  one  hand  and  a  dust-pan 
in  the  other,  which  dropped  with  a  clatter  when  she  saw 
her  sister. 

Cynthia  had  drawn  back  her  own  curly  bang,  and  fast- 
ened on  the  smooth  brown  hair  of  her  great-aunt.  The 
puffs  adorned  either  side  of  her  rosy  face,  and  she  was 
for  all  the  world  exactly  like  Miss  Betsey  Trinkett,  whose 
eyes  were  as  blue  and  nose  as  straight  as  those  of  four- 


21 


teen-year-old  Cynthia,  who  was  always  said  to  greatly  re- 
semble her. 

"  You're  the  very  image  of  her,"  laughed  Edith.  "  No 
one  would  ever  know  you  apart  if  you  had  on  a  bonnet 
and  shawl  like  hers." 

"  Edith,"  exclaimed  Cynthia,  "  I  have  an  idea  !  I'm  go- 
ing to  dress  up  and  make  Jack  think  Aunt  Betsey  has 
come  back.  He'll  never  know  me  in  the  world,  and  it 
will  be  such  fun  to  get  a  rise  out  of  him." 

"  Cynthia,  don't  use  such  horrible  slang  !  You  know 
papa  hates  it.  And  you  would  never  be  able  to  make 
Jack  think  you  are  Aunt  Betsey." 

*'  Yes,  I  will.  You'll  see.  Come  along,  Edith,  help  me  ! 
We'll  finish  the  house-cleaning  afterwards.  I'll  help  all 
the  afternoon.  Don't  you  know  that  old  dress  of  grand- 
mother's?    Where  is  it?" 

"  In  the  camphor  closet,  and  it  will  smell  horribly." 

*'  No  matter,  Jack  won't  notice.  And  that  old  bonnet 
we  used  to  dress  up  in.     That's  the  very  thing." 

Cynthia's  enthusiasm  was  contagious,  and  Edith,  leav- 
ing bureau-drawers  standing  open  and  boxes  uncovered, 
hurried  off  to  find  the  desired  articles. 

Cynthia  was  soon  dressed  in  exact  reproduction  of 
Aunt  Betsey's  usual  costume,  with  a  figured  black -lace 
veil  over  her  face,  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Jack  was  at 
that  moment  seen  coming  up  the  drive.  She  hastily  de- 
scended to  the  parlor,  where  she  and  Edith  were  discov- 
ered in  conversation  when  Jack  entered  the  house. 

"Holloa,  Aunt  Betsey  1"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  kissed  her 
unsuspectingly.     "  Have  you  come  back?" 

"Yes,  Jackie,"  said  a  prim  New  England  voice  with  a 
slightly  provincial  accent.     "I  thought  I'd  like  to  hear 


22 


about  those  little  orphan  chicks,  and  so  I  said  to  Silas, 
said  I, '  Silas—'  " 

Edith  darted  from  her  chair  to  a  distant  window,  and 
Cynthia  was  obliged  to  break  off  abruptly,  or  she  would 
have  laughed  aloud.  Jack,  however,  took  no  notice.  The 
mention  of  the  chickens  was  enough  for  him. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come  down  and  see  the  machine? 
I  say,  Aunt  Betsey,  you  were  a  regular  brick  to  send  me 
the  money.     Did  you  get  my  letter  ?" 

"  Yes,  Jackie,  and  I  hope  you  are  reading  the  book 
carefully.  You  will  learn  a  great  deal  from  that  book 
about  hens." 

"  Yes.  Well,  I  haven't  got  any  hens  yet.  Look  out 
for  these  stairs,  Aunt  Betsey.    They're  rather  dangerous." 

This  was  too  much  for  Cynthia.  To  be  warned  about 
the  cellar  stairs,  over  which  she  gayly  tripped  at  least  a 
dozen  times  a  day,  was  the  crowning  joke  of  the  per- 
formance. She  sat  down  on  the  lowest  step  and  shouted 
with  laughter.  Jack,  who  was  studying  his  thermometer, 
turned  in  surprise. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  know  Cynthia  was  here.  AVhy — why, 
Aunt  Betsey,  what's  the  matter  ?  And  where  is  Cynthia  ? 
And  Edith  !     Are  you  all  crazy  ?" 

For  the  dignified  Edith  was  sitting  on  the  top  step,  also 
bent  double  with  laughter. 

It  was  too  good.  Cynthia  tossed  up  her  veil,  and  turned 
her  crimson  face  to  her  brother. 

"  Oh,  Jack,  Jack,  I  have  you  this  time !  This  pays  off 
a  hundred  old  scores.  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  I  never  dreamed  you 
would  be  so  taken  in  !" 

And  she  danced  up  and  down  with  glee. 

Jack's  first  feeling  was  one  of  anger.     How  stupid  he 


23 

had  been  !  Then  his  sense  of  the  hidicrous  overcame  him, 
and  he  joined  in  the  mirth,  laughing  until  the  tears  rolled 
down  his  face. 

"  It's  too  good  to  be  wasted,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he 
could  speak.  "  AVhy  don't  you  go  and  see  somebody  ? 
Go  to  those  dear  friends  of  Aunt  Betsey's,  the  Parkers." 

"  I  will,  I  will !"  cried  Cynthia.  "  I'll  go  right  away 
now.     Jack,  yon  can  drive  me  there." 

'•'  Oh  no  !"  exclaimed  Edith.  "They  would  be  sure  to 
find  you  out,  and  it  would  be  all  over  town.  You  sha'n't 
do  it,  Cynthia." 

''  They'll  never  find  me  out.  If  Jack,  my  own  twin 
brother,  didn't,  I'm  sure  they  wouldn't.  I'm  going! 
Hurry  up.  Jack,  and  harness  the  horse." 

Jack  went  up  the  stairs  like  lightning,  and  was  off  to 
the  barn.  All  Edith's  pleadings  and  expostulations  were 
in  vain.  Cynthia  could  be  very  determined  when  she 
pleased,  and  this  time  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  pay 
no  attention  to  the  too-cautious  Edith. 

She  waved  farewell  to  her  sister  in  exact  imitation  of 
Aunt  Betsey's  gesture,  and  drove  away  by  Jack's  side  in 
the  old  buggy. 

"Mrs.  Parker  is  so  gossipy,  I  shall  be  sure  to  hear 
something  funny,"  she  remarked  to  Jack.  "  I  must  tell 
her  all  about  the  new  false  front,  and  what  'Silas'  said, 
and  all.  It  wdll  be  such  fun  !  I  wish  you  could  go  in  too, 
Jack,  but  you'd  be  sure  to  laugh  and  spoil  it  all.  You 
couldn't  help  it.  Oh,  here  w^e  are,  turning  in  already  1 
I'm  so  excited  I  can  scarcely  speak." 

They  drew  up  at  the  door,  and  Jack  with  great  polite- 
ness assisted  "  Aunt  Betsey  "  from  the  carriage.  He  ran 
up  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell  for  her,  and  then,  taking 


24 


his  place  again  in  the  buggy,  he  drove  off  to  a  shady  spot 
at  a  little  distance,  and  waited  for  his  supposed  aunt  to 
reappear. 

*'  Don't  be  too  long,"  he  had  whispered  at  parting. 

It  seemed  hours,  but  it  was  really  only  twenty  minutes 
later,  when  the  front  door  opened  and  the  quaint  little 
figure  descended  the  steps  amid  the  voluble  good-byes  of 
Mrs.  Parker. 

"  So  glad  to  have  seen  you,  my  dear  Miss  Trinkett !  I 
never  saw  you  looking  so  well  or  so  young.  You  are  a 
marvel.  And  you  won't  repeat  that  little  piece  of  news 
I  told  you,  will  yon?  You  will  probably  hear  it  all  in 
good  time.     Good-bye  !" 

It  was  a  very  quiet  and  depressed  Aunt  Betsey  who 
got  into  the  carriage  and  drove  away  with  Jack,  very 
different  from  the  gay  little  lady  who  had  entered  the 
Parkers'  gates. 

"  Well,  was  it  a  success  ?  Did  she  know  you  ?  Tell  us 
about  it,"  said  Jack,  eagerly. 

"  Jack,  don't  ask  me  a  word." 

"  Why  ?  I  say,  what's  up  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  Did 
she  find  you  out  ?" 

"  No,  of  course  not.  She  never  guessed  it.  But — but 
— oh.  Jack,  she  told  me  something." 

"  But  what  was  it  ?" 

"  I — I  don't  believe  I  can  tell  you  1" 


CHAPTER  III 

When  Cynthia  asked  at  Mrs.  Parker's  door  if  that  lady 
were  at  home  it  was  not  necessary  for  her  to  give  her 
name.     The  maid  recognized  Miss  Trinkett  at  once. 

*'  Yes,  she's  at  home,  ma'am.  And  won't  you  please 
step  into  the  parlor,  Miss  Trinkett  ?  Mrs.  Parker  '11  be 
glad  to  see  you." 

Mrs.  Parker  came  hurrying  down. 

"  Dear  Miss  Trinkett,  how  are  you  ?  Why,  I  should 
scarcely  have  known  you !  What  have  you  done  to 
yourself  ?" 

Cynthia  laughed  her  great-aunt's  high  staccato  laugh. 

"  Well,  now,  I  want  to  know,  Mrs.  Parker !  Don't  you 
see  what  it  is  ?  Why,  my  nieces  at  Oakleigh,  they  saw 
right  away  what  the  difference  was.  I  thought  'twas 
about  time  I  was  keeping  up  with  the  fashions,  and  so  I 
bought  me  a  fine  new  piece  of  hair  for  my  front.  I  was 
growing  somewhat  gray,  and  I  thought  'twas  best  to  keep 
young  on  Silas's  account.  It  isn't  that  I  care  for  my- 
self, but  you  have  to  be  particular  about  men-folks,  as 
you'll  know  when  you've  seen  as  much  of  them  as  I 
have." 

Cynthia  was  a  good  actress,  and  she  carried  herself 
precisely  as  Miss  Betsey  did,  and  imitated  her  voice  to 
perfection. 

She  repeated  some  of  her  aunt's  best-known  tales,  and 
good  Mrs.  Parker  never  dreamed  of  the  possibility  of  her 


26 


caller  being  any  one  but  worthy  Miss  Betsey  Trinkett,  of 
Wayborough,  whom  she  had  known  for  years. 

Mrs.  Parker  was  a  great  talker,  and  usually  she  was 
obliged  to  fight  hard  to  surpass  Miss  Trinkett  in  that 
respect.  During  the  first  part  of  the  call  to-day  it  was 
as  difficult  as  usual,  but  Mrs.. Parker  presently  made  a 
remark  which  reduced  her  visitor  to  a  state  of  alarming 
silence. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  come  to  announce  the  news," 
said  the  hostess,  smiling  sympathetically. 

"  Now  I  don't  know  a  bit  of  news.  Why,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Parker,  Silas  and  I  we  never — " 

"  Ah,  but  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  Silas,  though  it 
may  affect  you,  more  or  less.  Surely  you  know  what  I 
am  alluding  to  ?" 

"  I  haven't  the  least  idea." 

And  Cynthia  bridled  with  curiosity  on  her  own  account 
as  well  as  Aunt  Betsey's.  She  thought  something  inter- 
esting must  be  coming. 

"  Well,  now,  to  think  of  my  being  the  one  to  tell  you 
something  about  your  own  family  !  I  don't  know  whether 
I  ought  to,  but  I  think  it  must  be  true,  and  you'll  hear  it 
in  other  ways  soon  enough.  You  know  1  have  relatives 
in  Albany,  where  she  lives." 

"  Where  who  lives  ?" 

"Miss  Gordon,  Hester  Gordon.  They  say  —  but,  of 
course,  I  don't  know  that  it's  true,  it  may  be  just  report, 
but  they  do  say — I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  tell 
you,  I  declare  ! — that  it  won't  be  long  before  she's  Mrs. 
Franklin." 

"  Mrs.  Franklin  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  John  Franklin.     Hasn't  your  nephew  told 


27 


you  ?    Well,  well,  these  men  !    They  do  beat  all  for  keep- 
ing things  quiet." 

"  Is  it  true  ?" 

It  was  Cynthia's  natural  voice  that  asked  this  question. 
She  quite  forgot  that  she  was  supposed  to  be  Miss  Betsey 
Trinkett. 

"  I  suppose  it  is.  But,  dear  me.  Miss  Trinkett,  don't 
be  worried !  Seems  to  me  you  look  very  queer,  though 
I  can't  see  your  face  very  well  through  that  veil,  and  you 
with  your  back  to  the  light.  Your  voice  sounds  sort  of 
unnatural,  too.     Let  me  get  you  a  glass  of  water." 

"  Oh  no,  it  is  nothing,"  said  Cynthia,  who  had  quickly 
recovered  herself,  and  was  now  summoning  all  her  energy 
to  finish  the  call  in  a  proper  manner.  "  You  surprised 
me,  that's  all,  and  I  never  did  care  much  for  surprises. 
But  I  think  there's  not  much  truth  in  that,  Mrs.  Parker. 
I  don't  believe  ray  fa — nephew  is  going  to  be  married 
again.  In  fact,  I'm  very  sure  he  is  not."  And  she  nod- 
ded her  head  emphatically. 

'<  Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Trinkett,  you  never  can  tell.  Some- 
times a  man's  family  is  the  last  to  hear  those  things.  And 
it  will  be  a  good  match,  too.  She  comes  of  an  old  fam- 
ily and  she  has  a  great  deal  of  money.  The  Gordons  are 
all  rich." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he'd  care  for  that  ?"  exclaimed  her 
visitor,  wrathfully. 

"  Well,  well,  one  never  knows  !  And  think  how  much 
better  it  would  be  for  the  children.  Edith  is  too  young 
to  have  so  much  care,  and  they  say  Cynthia  runs  wild  most 
of  the  time,  just  like  a  boy.  Indeed,  I  call  it  a  very  good 
thino-.  Though  I  must  say  she  is  a  pretty  brave  woman 
to  take  on  herself  the  care  of  that  family." 


28 


Here  "Miss  Betsey"  suddenly  darted  for  tlie  door. 
It  could  be  endured  no  longer;  Mrs.  Parker  bade  her 
farewell,  and  then  went  back  to  tell  her  daughters  that 
Miss  Trinkett  was  sadly  changed.  Though  she  was  still 
so  young  in  appearance,  she  was  evidently  very  much 
broken. 

For  some  time  Jack  could  obtain  no  reply  to  his  ques- 
tions, but  at  last  Cynthia's  resolution  broke  down  and  she 
burst  into  tears.  They  had  turned  into  a  shady  lane  in- 
stead of  going  directly  home,  and  there  was  no  danger  of 
meeting  any  one. 

"  Jack,  Jack !"  she  moaned,  *'  I'll  have  to  tell  you. 
Mrs.  Parker  says  papa  is  going  to  be  married  again ! 
What  shall  we  do  ?     What  shall  we  do  ?" 

For  answer  Jack  indulged  in  a  prolonged  whistle. 

"  Isn't  it  the  most  dreadful  thing  you  ever  heard  of  ? 
Jack,  how  shall  we  ever  endure  it  ?" 

"Well,  it  mayn't  be  as  bad  as  you  think.  If  she's 
nice — " 

"  Oh,  Jack,  she  won't  be  !  Step-mothers  are  never  nice. 
I  never  in  my  life  heard  of  one  that  was.  She'll  be  horrid 
to  us  all." 

"Oh,  I  say,  that's  nonsense.  If  you  were  to  marry  a 
widower  with  a  lot  of  children  you'd  be  nice  to  them." 

"  Jack,  the  very  idea !  I  marry  a  widower  with  a  lot 
of  children  !     I'd  like  to  see  myself  doing  such  a  thing !" 

Cynthia  almost  forgot  her  present  trouble  in  her  wrath 
at  her  brother's  suG^sfestion. 

"Well,  after  all,  it  may  not  be  true.  Because  Mrs. 
Parker  says  so  doesn't  prove  it.     Where  did  she  hear  it  ?" 

"  From  some  of  her  Albany  relations,  I  suppose.  The 
i— the  lady  lives  there.      But,  oh,  Jack !     Do  you  think 


YOUR   VOICE  SOUiNDS    SORT    OF   UNNAVUh'AL,' 'iW/' ADDED    MRS.  PARKER " 


there  is  any  chance  of  its  not  being  true?"  cried  Cyn- 
thia, catching  at  the  least  straw  of  hope. 

"  Why,  of  course  !  Father  hasn't  told  us,  and  you  can't 
believe  all  the  gossip  you  hear,"  said  Jack,  loftily. 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  true,  after  all,"  exclaimed  Cynthia, 
drying  her  eyes  and  smiling  once  more,  "  and  I've  been 
boo-hooing  all  for  nothing  !  I  sha'n't  say  a  word  about  it 
to  Edith,  and  don't  you  either,  Jack.  It  isn't  worth 
while  to  worry  her,  and  Mrs.  Parker  is  a  terrible  gossip." 

They  went  home,  and  Cynthia  gave  her  sister  a  gay  ac- 
count of  her  visit,  carefully  omitting  all  exciting  items, 
and  then  she  helped  Edith  put  away  some  of  the  things, 
and  finally  was  free  to  go  on  the  river  in  the  afternoon. 
Jack,  boy-like,  had  forgotten  all  about  Mrs.  Parker's  news. 
He  did  not  believe  it,  and  therefore  it  was  not  worth 
thinking  of.  But  Cynthia's  mind  was  not  so  easily  di- 
verted. She  did  not  believe  it,  either,  but  then  it  might 
be  true,  and  if  it  were,  what  was  to  be  done  ?  It  seemed 
as  if  a  worse  calamity  could  not  happen. 

Jack,  her  usual  companion  on  the  river,  was  busy  with 
some  carpentry.  He  was  making  a  "brooder"  like  one 
he  had  bought,  to  serve  as  a  home  for  the  little  chicks 
when  they  should  be  hatched.  He  used  the  "  barn  cham- 
ber "  for  a  workshop,  and  the  sound  of  his  saw  and  his 
hammer  could  be  heard  through  the  open  window. 

Cynthia  was  deeply  interested  in  poultry  raising,  but 
she  wished  it  did  not  consume  so  much  of  her  brother's 
time  and  attention. 

Edith  was  going  to  the  village  to  an  afternoon  tea  at  the 
Morgans'.  Gertrude  Morgan  was  her  most  intimate  friend, 
and  all  the  nicest  girls  and  boys  would  be  there  to  talk 
over  a  tennis  tournament.     Cynthia  was  rather  sorry  that 


30 


she  had  not  been  asked.  She  said  to  herself  that  she 
would  be  of  more  value  in  the  discussion  than  Edith,  for  she 
really  played  tennis,  while  Edith  merely  stood  about  look- 
ing graceful  and  pretty.  However,  she  had  not  been  in- 
vited, and,  after  all,  the  river  was  more  fun  than  any  after- 
noon tea. 

One  of  the  men  put  the  canoe  in  the  water  for  her,  and, 
with  a  huge  stone  to  act  as  ballast,  she  paddled  up  stream, 
browsing  along  the  banks  looking  for  wild -flowers,  or 
steering  her  way  through  the  rocks,  of  which  the  river  was 
very  full  just  at  this  point. 

Cynthia,  fond  as  she  was  of  companionship,  being  of 
an  extremely  sociable  disposition,  was  never  lonely  on  her 
beloved  river. 

Edith  dressed  herself  carefully  and  drove  off  to  the  tea. 
She  looked  very  attractive  in  her  spring  gown  of  gray  and 
her  large  black  hat,  and  as  she  studied  herself  in  the  small, 
old-fashioned  mirror  that  hung  in  her  room  she  felt  quite 
pleased  with  her  appearance. 

"  If  I  only  had  more  nice  gloves  I  should  be  satisfied," 
she  thought.  "  It  is  so  horrid  to  be  always  saving  up  one 
pair,  and  having  to  wear  such  old  things  for  driving,  and 
whisk  them  off  just  before  I  get  to  a  place,  and  put  on  the 
good  ones.  And  a  handsome  parasol  would  be  so  nice.  I 
don't  think  I'll  take  this  old  thing.  I  don't  really  need  one 
to-day.  I  wonder  where  the  children  are.  I  ought  to  look 
them  up,  I  suppose  ;  but  they  must  be  all  right,  somewhere, 
and  it  is  getting  late.  After  all,  why  should  I  always  be 
the  one  to  run  after  those  children  ?" 

And  then  she  drove  away  to  Brenton,  leaving  house- 
keeping cares  behind  her,  and  prepared  for  a  pleasant  after- 
noon. 


31 


About  half-a-dozen  boys  and  girls  had  already  arrived 
at  the  Morgans'  when  Edith  drove  in.  It  was  a  fine  old 
house,  standing  far  back  from  the  road  and  surrounded 
■with  shady  grounds.  The  river  was  at  the  back.  A 
smooth  and  well-kept  tennis-court  was  on  the  left  of  the 
drive  as  one  approached  the  house,  and  here  the  guests 
were  assembled. 

"  Oh,  here's  Edith  Franklin  at  last !"  cried  Gertrude 
Morgan,  while  her  brother  went  forward  and,  after  helping 
Edith  to  alight,  took  her  horse  and  drove  down  to  the 
stable. 

Presently  all  the  tongues  were  buzzing,  each  one  sug- 
gesting what  he  or  she  considered  the  very  best  plan  for 
holding  a  tournament.  It  was  finally  arranged  to  have 
it  at  the  tennis  club  rather  than  at  the  Morgans',  as  had  at 
first  been  thought  best,  and  it  would  be  open  to  all  comers 
who  had  reached  the  age  of  fourteen. 

"That  is  very  young,"  said  Gertrude,  "but  we  really 
ought  to  have  it  open  to  Cynthia  Franklin.  She  is  one  of 
the  best  players  in  Brenton." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  her  brother,  who  was  always  on 
the  side  of  the  Franklins ;  "  and,  Edith,  you'll  play  with  me, 
won't  you,  in  mixed  doubles?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  play  well  enough,"  exclaimed  Edith. 
"  Thank  you  ever  so  much,  Dennis,  but  you  had  better  ask 
some  one  else.     I  don't  think  I'll  play." 

Every  one  objected  to  this,  but  it  was  finally  settled  that 
Edith  should  act  as  one  of  the  hostesses  for  the  important 
occasion,  which  was  greatly  to  her  satisfaction.  She  rather 
enjoyed  moving  slowly  and  gracefully  about,  pouring  tea 
and  lemonade,  and  handing  them  to  the  poor,  heated  play- 
ers, who  were  obliged  to  work  so  hard  for  their  fun. 


They  were  startled  by  the  sound  of  the  clock  on  the 
church  across  the  road.  It  struck  six,  and  Edith  rose  in 
haste. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said.  "  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late  ! 
Those  children  have  probably  gotten  into  all  kinds  of  mis- 
chief while  I've  been  away,  and  papa  will  not  be  home  un- 
til late,  so  I  am  not  to  wait  in  the  village  for  him." 

The  others  looked  after  her  as  she  drove  away. 

"  Isn't  she  the  sweetest,  dearest  girl  ?"  cried  Gertrude. 
"  And  won't  it  be  hard  for  her  if  her  father  marries  again, 
as  every  one  says  he  is  going  to  do  ?  But,  after  all,  it  may 
be  a  good  thing,  for  then  Edith  wouldn't  have  to  do  so 
much  for  the  children.  I  wonder  if  she  knows  about  it. 
She  hasn't  breathed  a  word  of  it,  even  to  me." 

Janet  and  Willy,  the  inseparable  but  ever-fighting  pair, 
came  in  at  the  side  door  not  very  long  after  Edith  went  to 
the  village.  They  found  the  house  empty  and  the  coast 
clear,  and  their  active  brains  immediately  set  to  work  to 
solve  the  question  of  what  mischief  they  could  do. 

They  wandered  into  the  big  silent  kitchen.  The  ser- 
vants were  up-stairs,  and  beyond  the  buzzing  of  a  fly  on 
the  window-pane,  and  the  singing  of  the  kettle  on  the 
range,  perfect  quiet  reigned. 

"  Let's  go  down  and  see  the  inkerbaker,"  said  Willy. 

*'  All  right,"  returned  Janet,  affably,  and  down  they  pat- 
tered as  fast  as  their  sturdy  little  legs  could  carry  them. 

They  peered  in  through  the  glass  front  at  the  eggs  which 
lay  so  peacefully  within. 

"  It  must  be  turrible  stupid  in  there,"  said  Janet,  pity- 
ingly. "  Shouldn't  you  think  those  chickens  would  be 
tired  of  waiting  to  come  out  ?" 


33 


"  Yes.     We  might  crack  a  lot  and  help  'em  out." 

"  Oh  no.  Jack  says  they  won't  be  ready  for  two  days. 
But  I'll  tell  you  what  we  might  do.  We  might  see  whether 
it's  hot  enough  for  'em  in  there.  I  guess  Jack's  forgotten 
all  about  'em.  I  don't  believe  he's  been  near  'em  to-day, 
nor  Martha  either." 

"  How  d'  yer  find  out  whever  it's  hot  enough  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Guess  you  open  the  door  and  put  your 
hand  in  and  feel." 

For  Janet  had  never  been  taught  the  significance  of  the 
thermometer  inside,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  proper  means 
of  ventilating  the  machine. 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  One  of  the  doors  was 
promptly  opened,  and  two  fat  hands  were  thrust  into  the 
chamber. 

"  My  goodies,  it's  hot  there  !"  cried  Janet.  "We  ought 
to  cool  it  off.  Let's  leave  the  door  open  and  turn  down 
the  lamp  and  open  the  cellar  window." 

Mounted  on  an  old  barrel,  Janet,  at  the  risk  of  her  life, 
struggled  in  vain  with  the  window.  She  chose  one  that 
was  never  used,  and  it  refused  to  respond  to  her  efforts. 
Then  she  descended,  and  returned  to  the  incubator. 

"  Can't  do  it,"  she  said.  "  But  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll 
do." 

"  What  ?"  asked  the  ever-ready  Willy. 

"  Pour  some  ice-water  over  'em.     That  '11  cool  'em  nice- 

ly." 

They  travelled  up  the  cellar  stairs  to  the  "  cooler,"  which 
stood  in  the  hall. 

"  Wish  we  had  a  pitcher,"  said  Janet.  "  You  take  the 
tum'ler,  and  I'll  get  a  dipper." 

It  required  several  journeys  to  and  fro  to  suflBciently  cool 


34 


the  eo'gs,  according  to  their  way  of  thinking,  but  at  last 
it  was  accomplished,  with  much  dripping  of  water  and 
splashing  of  clean  clothes. 

The  water-cooler  was  left  empty,  and  the  incubator  was 
in  a  state  of  dampness  alarming  to  behold. 

"  There  ;  I  guess  it's  cool  enough  now  !"  said  Janet,  when 
the  last  trip  had  been  taken. 

Alas,  the  mercury,  which  should  have  remained  at  103°, 
had  dropped  quietly  down  to  10°  ! 

"  I'd  like  to  see  what's  in  those  eggs,"  said  Willy,  medi- 
tatively.    "  D'  yer  s'pose  they're  chickies  yet  ?" 

"  I  guess  so.  I'd  like  to  see,  too.  I'll  tell  you  Avhat, 
Willy  !     Let's  take  one,  and  carry  it  off  and  see." 

"  All  right.  I'll  be  the  one  to  take  it.  What  '11  Jack 
say  ?" 

"  He  won't  mind.  Just  one  egg,  and  he  has  such  a  lot. 
And  we've  been  helping  him  lots  this  afternoon,  cooling 
'em  off  so  nicely.     But  I'll  be  the  one  to  take  it." 

*'  No,  me  !" 

"Let's  both  do  it,"  said  Janet,  for  once  anxious  to 
avoid  a  quarrel.  "  I  speak  for  that  big  one  over  there," 
and  she  abstracted  one  from  the  "thermometer  row  " — the 
row  that  was  most  important  and  precious  in  the  eyes  of 
the  owner  of  the  machine. 

"And  I'll  take  dis  one.  It's  awful  heavy,  and  I  guess 
dc  dear  little  chicken  '11  be  glad  to  get  out  and  have  some 
nice  fresh  air." 

"  Let's  go  down  behind  the  carriage-house  and  look  at 
'em." 

They  fastened  the  door  of  the  incubator,  and  departed 
with  their  treasures. 

Half  an  hour  later  Jack,  having  finished  his  work,  came 


35 


whistling  into  the  house.  He  would  go  down  and  have  a 
look  at  the  machine,  and  then  walk  up  the  river  bank  to  meet 
Cynthia,  whom  he  had  seen  as  she  paddled  off  early  in  the 
afternoon. 

His  first  glance  at  the  thermometer  gave  him  a  shock ; 
75°  it  registered.  What  had  happened?  He  looked  at 
the  lamp  which  heated  the  chambers,  and  found  that  it 
had  been  turned  down  very  low.  What  could  Martha 
have  been  thinking  of,  when  he  told  her  it  was  so  im- 
portant to  keep  up  the  temperature  this  last  day  or  so  ? 
The  day  after  to-morrow  he  expected  the  hatching  to  be- 
gin, and  he  had  closed  the  door  of  the  incubator  that 
morning.  It  was  not  to  be  opened  again  until  all  the 
chicks  were  out. 

Jack  was  on  tiptoe  with  excitement.  If  they  came  out 
well,  what  a  triumph  it  would  be !  If  they  failed,  what 
would  his  father  say  ? 

He  looked  again,  and  a  most  unexpected  sight  met  his 
eyes.  Water  was  dripping  from  the  trays,  and  the  fine 
gravel  beneath  had  become  mud. 

And  there  was  a  vacant  space  in  one  of  the  trays.  An 
ego;  had  gone — and  it  was  from  the  third  row,  the  row 
which  he  had  been  so  careful  about,  which  contained  the 
best  eggs. 

And — yes,  surely  there  was  another  hole.  Another  egg 
gone  !     What  could  have  happened  ? 

He  ran  up-stairs  three  steps  at  a  time,  shouting  for 
Martha. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing,  Martha?"  he  cried.  "  Two 
eggs  are  gone,  and  the  thermometer  way  below  80°,  and 
all  that  water !" 

"  Sure,  Mr.  Jack,  I  haven't  been  there  at  all !     You  were 


36 


at  home  yourself  to-day,  and  I  never  go  near  the  place  of 
a  Saturday." 

"Well,  some  one  has  been  at  it.  Where's  Cynthia? 
Where's  Edith  ?  W^hy  isn't  somebody  at  home  to  attend 
to  things  ?" 

No  one  could  be  found.  Jack  rushed  frantically  about, 
and  at  last  heard  the  sound  of  wheels.  Edith  was  return- 
ing from  the  tea.  And,  at  the  same  moment,  around  the 
corner  of  the  house  came  Cynthia,  leading  two  crying  chil- 
dren. 

They  all  met  on  the  front  porch. 

"  They've  been  up  to  mischief.  Jack,"  said  Cynthia ; 
"  I  hope  they  haven't  done  much  harm.  I  found  them  on 
the  bank,  behind  the  carriage  -  house.  They  must  have 
been  at  the  incubator,  for  they  had  two  eggs,  and  the 
chickens  are  dead.  And  they  are  two  bad,  naughty  chil- 
dren 1" 

Even  Cynthia,  the  peacemaker,  had  been  stirred  to  right- 
eous wrath  by  the  sight  on  the  river  bank. 

"  You  rascals  !"  cried  Jack,  in  a  fury,  shaking  them  each 
in  turn  ;  "  I'd  like  to  lick  you  to  pieces !  You've  ruined 
the  whole  hatch." 

*'  Go  straight  to  bed,"  said  Edith,  sternly  ;  "  you  are 
the  very  worst  children  I  ever  knew.  I  ought  not  to  leave 
the  house  a  minute.     You  can't  be  trusted  at  all." 

They  all  went  in,  scolding,  storming,  crying.  In  the 
midst  of  the  confusion  Mr.  Franklin  arrived,  earlier  than 
he  had  been  expected.  It  was  some  minutes  before  he 
could  understand  the  meaning  of  the  uproar. 

He  looked  about  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  It  only  serves  to  justify  me  in  a  conclusion  that  I 
have  reached,"  he  said.     "  You  are  all  too  young  to  be 


37 


without  some  one  to  look  after  you.  Take  the  children 
to  bed,  Edith,  and  then  come  to  me.  I  have  something 
to  tell  you." 

Edith,  wondering,  did  as  she  was  told.  Cynthia  gave 
Jack  one  despairing  look  and  fled  from  the  room.  Her 
worst  fears  were  on  the  point  of  being  realized. 

And  after  tea,  when  they  were  sitting  as  usual  in  the 
long  parlor,  Mr.  Franklin,  with  some  hesitation  and  much 
embarrassment,  informed  them  that  he  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  Miss  Hester  Gordon,  of  Albany. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Mr.  Franklin's  announcement  at  first  almost  stunned 
liis  children.  They  could  not  believe  it.  Jack  and  Cyn- 
thia were  somewhat  prepared  for  it,  it  is  true,  but  when 
they  heard  the  news  from  their  father's  own  lips  it  was 
none  the  less  startling. 

o 

To  Edith  it  came  like  a  thunderbolt.  She  had  never 
had  the  smallest  suspicion  that  her  father  would  marry 
again.  She  had  always  supposed  that  she  would  be  suf- 
ficient for  him.  She  would  never  marry  herself,  she 
thought,  but  would  stay  at  home  and  be  the  comfort  of 
his  declining  years.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that 
her  father,  still  a  young  and  good-looking  man  of  barely 
forty,  would  be  exceedingly  likely  to  marry  a  second 
time. 

And  now  what  was  to  happen  ?  A  stranger  was  coming 
to  rule  over  them.  Edith  would  never  endure  it,  never ! 
She  would  go  away  and  live  with  Aunt  Betsey.  Anything 
would  be  better  than  a  step-mother. 

When  she  spoke  her  voice  was  hard  and  unnatural. 

"Haven't  I  done  right,  papa?  Weren't  you  satisfied 
with  me?     I  have  tried." 

"My  dear  child,  you  have  done  your  best,  but  you  are 
too  young.  No  one  can  expect  a  girl  of  sixteen  to  take 
entire  charge  of  a  house  and  family.  And  it  is  not  only 
that.  Hester  is  a  charming  woman.  She  reminds  me 
something   of  your  mother,  Edith.     It  w^as  that   which 


39 


first  attracted  ine.     She  will  be  a  companion  to  you — a 
sister." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  don't  need  either.  Cynthia  is  all 
the  sister  I  want.  Oh,  papa,  papa,  why  are  you  going  to 
do  it !" 

She  went  to  her  own  room  and  shut  the  door.  After 
this  one  outbreak  she  said  no  more.  Small  things  made 
Edith  storm  and  even  cry,  dignified  though  she  was.  This 
great  shock  stunned  her.  She  did  not  shed  a  tear,  and 
she  bore  it  in  silence ;  but  a  hard  feeling  came  into  her 
heart,  and  she  determined  that  she  would  never  forgive 
this  Miss  Gordon  who  had  entrapped  her  father  (so  she 
put  it),  and  was  coming  to  rule  over  them  and  order  them 
about.     She,  for  one,  would  never  submit  to  it. 

Jack  did  not  mind  it  in  the  least,  and  Cynthia,  who 
idolized  her  father,  was  sure  from  what  he  said  that  he 
was  doing  what  he  considered  was  for  his  happiness.  Of 
course  it  was  terrible  for  them,  but  they  must  make  the 
best  of  it. 

They  passed  a  dreary  Sunday,  but  Monday  was  expect- 
ed to  be  an  exciting  day,  for  on  that  date  the  chickens 
were  to  appear.  But  when  the  children  returned  from 
school  there  were  but  small  signs  of  the  anticipated  hatch 
in  the  incubator ;  one  shell  only  had  a  little  crack  on  the 
end. 

Cynthia  took  up  her  position  in  front  of  the  machine 
with  a  book,  and  waited  patiently  hour  after  hour.  Noth- 
ing came.  The  next  morning  there  was  another  crack  in 
the  next  egg,  and  the  first  had  spread  a  little,  but  that 
was  all.  The  children  all  went  to  school  but  Edith,  and 
she  felt  too  low-spirited  to  go  down  to  the  cellar  to  watch. 

Janet  and  Willy  were  forbidden  to  go  near  the  place. 


40 


As  punishment  for  their  conduct  on  Saturday,  they  were 
not  to  be  present  at  the  hatching.  It  was  thought  that 
owing  to  what  they  had  done  the  chickens  were  not  forth- 
coming, and  indeed  it  had  been  most  disastrous. 

When  Jack  and  Cynthia  returned  from  school  they 
found  that  two  Httle  chicks — probably  the  only  two  which 
had  escaped  the  cold  bath — had  emerged  from  their  shells, 
and  were  hopping  dismally  about  in  the  gravel  beneath 
the  trays.  One  hundred  and  ninety-eight  hoped-for  com- 
panions failed  to  appear. 

Jack's  first  hatch  was  anything  but  a  success.  He  bore 
it  bravely,  but  it  was  a  bitter  disappointment.  After  wait- 
ing many  hours  in  the  vain  hope  of  seeing  another  shell 
crack,  he  removed  the  two  little  comrades  to  the  large 
brooder  built  to  hold  a  hundred,  and  then,  nothing  daunt- 
ed, sent  for  more  eggs.  He  still  had  some  of  Aunt  Bet- 
sey's money  left. 

Jack  was  plucky,  and  his  pride  would  not  permit  him 
to  give  up.  He  would  profit  by  this  experience,  and  next 
time  he  would  be  victorious.  He  feared  that,  besides  the 
mischief  done  by  the  children,  he  had  been  over-fussy  in 
his  care  of  the  eggs,  and  he  determined  to  act  more  wise- 
ly in  every  respect. 

In  after  years  Cynthia  looked  back  upon  the  first  hatch 
as  one  of  the  most  depressing  events  in  her  life.  The 
children  in  disgrace,  Edith  silent  and  woe-begone  in  her 
own  room,  she  and  Jack  watching  hour  after  hour  in  the 
big  cellar  for  the  chickens  that  never  came — and,  above 
all,  the  impending  arrival  of  the  second  Mrs.  Franklin. 

Aunt  Betsey  journeyed  down  from  Wayborough  as 
soon  as  she  heard  the  news.  They  did  not  know  she  was 
coming  until  they  saw  one  of  the  station  carriages  slowly 


41 


approaching  the  house,  with  Miss  Trinkett's  well -'known 
bonnet  inside  of  it.  She  waved  her  hand  gayly,  and 
opened  the  subject  at  once. 

"  Well,  well,"  she  cried,  "  this  is  news  indeed  !  I  want 
to  know  !  Nephew  John  going  to  be  married  again  !  Just 
what  I  always  thought  he  had  best  do  for  the  good  of  you 
children.     Have  you  seen  the  bride,  and  what  is  she  like  ?" 

It  was  a  warm  June  day,  and  the  Franklins  were  on  the 
piazza  when  this  was  shouted  to  them  from  the  carriage 
in  their  aunt's  shrill  voice.  Edith  writhed.  Though  the 
news  was  all  over  Brenton  by  now,  this  would  be  a  fine 
bit  for  the  driver  to  take  back. 

Jack  and  Cynthia  offered  to  help  Aunt  Betsey  to  alight, 
but  she  waved  them  aside. 

"  Don't  think  you  must  help  me,  my  dears.  This  good 
news  has  put  new  life  into  me.  How  do  you  all  do  ?" 
giving  each  one  of  her  birdlike  kisses,  and  settling  herself 
in  a  favorite  rocking-chair. 

The  younger  children  ran  to  her,  hoping  for  treasures 
from  the  carpet-bag. 

"  I  do  declare,"  exclaimed  she,  '*  if  I  didn't  forget  all 
about  you  in  the  news  of  the  bride  !  Never  mind ;  wait 
till  next  time,  and  I'll  bring  you  something  extry  nice 
when  I  come  to  see  the  bride." 

"  What's  a  bride  ?"  asked  Willy. 

"  La,  child,  don't  you  know  ?  They  haven't  been  kept 
in  ignorance,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  but  they  haven't  heard  her  called  that,"  ex- 
plained Cynthia. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  lady  that  is  coming  here  to  live  ?" 
asked  Janet.  "Well,  we  don't  like  her,  me  and  Willy. 
She's  made  Edith  cross  and  sobby,  and  she's  made  you 


42 


forget  our  presents,  and  she's  made  a  lot  of  fuss.  We 
don't  want  her  here  at  all." 

Miss  Trinkett  looked  shocked.  "  My  dear  children !" 
she  exclaimed,  too  much  aghast  to  say  more.  Then  she 
turned  to  Edith. 

"  But  now  tell  me  all  about  it.  Have  you  seen  her,  and 
is  she  young  ?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  her,  Aunt  Betsey,  and  I  don't  wish  to. 
I  don't  know  whether  she  is  young  or  old,  and  I  don't  care. 
Won't  you  take  me  home  with  you,  Aunt  Betsey?  Can't 
I  live  with  you  now  ?     I'm  not  needed  here." 

Miss  Betsey  stared  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Edith  Franklin,"  she  said,  folding  her  hands  in  her 
lap,  "  I  a7n  astonished  at  the  state  of  things  I  find  in  this 
household  !  Rebelling  against  circumstances  in  this  way, 
and  wishing  to  run  away  from  your  duties!  No,  indeed, 
my  dear.  Much  as  I'd  admire  to  have  you  live  with  me — 
and  there's  a  nice  little  chamber  over  the  living-room  that 
would  suit  you  to  a  T — I'd  never  be  the  one  to  encourage 
your  leaving  your  family.  You  are  setting  them  a  bad 
example  as  it  is,  teaching  these  young  things  to  look  with 
disfavor  on  their  new  mother  that  is  to  be.  No,  indeed. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  encourage  you.  And,  indeed,  I 
should  have  no  right,  when  my  own  mother  was  a  second 
wife.  Why,  in  the  early  days  of  the  colonies  it  was 
thought  nothing  at  all  for  a  man  to  marry  three  or  four 
tim.es,  as  you'd  know  if  you  had  read  Judge  Sewall's  Diary 
as  much  as  I  have,  or  other  valuable  works." 

Miss  Trinkett  rocked  violently  when  she  had  finished 
this  harangue.  Edith  did  not  reply.  She  had  looked  for 
sympathy  from  Aunt  Betsey ;  but  she,  like  all  the  rest  of  the 
world,  seemed  to  think  it  the  best  thing  that  could  happen. 


4B 


As  for  Miss  Betsey,  she  too  was  somewhat  disappointed. 
She  had  hoped  for  some  interesting  items,  and  none  seemed 
to  be  forthcoming. 

"  Where's  your  father  ?"  she  asked,  presently. 

Edith  did  not  reply. 

"  He  has  gone  to  Albany,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  Well,  well  1     And  when  is  the  wedding  to  be  ?" 

Edith  rose  and  went  into  the  house.  Cynthia  glanced 
after  her  regretfully,  and  then  answered  her  aunt's  ques- 
tion. 

"  It  is  to  be  in  a  week.  It  is  to  be  very  quiet,  because 
— ^because  Miss  Gordon  is  in  deep  mourning." 

''  Do  tell !  I  want  to  know  1"  ejaculated  Miss  Trinkett. 
"  And  are  none  of  you  going  ?" 

"No,  papa  did  not  think  it  was  best.  Hardly  any  one 
will  be  there.     Only  her  brother  and  one  or  two  others." 

"  So  she  has  a  brother.     Any  other  relatives  ?" 

<'  I  think  not.  She  lost  her  father  and  mother  when 
she  was  very  young,  and  her  grandmother  died  rather 
lately." 

"  I  want  to  know  !     And  when  are  they  coming  home  ?" 

"  Very  soon,"  said  Cynthia,  almost  inaudibl3\ 

"  Do  tell!" 

Miss  Betsey  said  no  more  at  present,  but  her  mind  was 
busy. 

"  Where  is  Jackie  ?"  she  next  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.  Gone  to  see  about  the  chickens,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Oh,  those  little  orphans.  Well,  I  haven't  time  to  ask 
about  them  now,  for  I  think,  Cynthia,  I  would  like  to  call 
upon  my  friend,  Mrs.  Parker.  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  was 
there." 


44 


"  Oh,  Aunt  Betsey  !"  exclaimed  Cynthia.  It  would  never 
do  for  her  aunt  to  see  Mrs.  Parker.  The  secret  of  her  es- 
capade at  that  good  lady's  house  would  surely  be  found 
out.     "Why  do  you  go  there  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  Because,  my  dear,  I  am  only  here  for  a  night,  and  I 
must  see  Mrs.  Parker." 

Cynthia  groaned  inwardly. 

"  And  hear  all  the  village  gossip  about  papa,"  she 
thought. 

It  must  be  prevented. 

But  Miss  Trinkett  was  not  to  be  turned  from  her  purpose. 
Go  she  would.  Every  available  excuse  in  the  world  was 
brought  up  to  deter  her,  but  the  end  of  it  was  that  Jack 
drove  around  in  the  buggy,  and  Miss  Betsey  departed  tri- 
umphantly. 

Cynthia  awaited  her  return  in  suspense.  She  wished 
that  she  could  run  away.  Her  impersonation  of  her  aunt 
did  not  seem  such  a  joke  as  it  had  at  the  time,  and  then 
she  had  heard  the  dreadful  news  there. 

Miss  Trinkett  came  back  before  very  long  in  high  dud- 
geon. Cynthia  was  alone  on  the  piazza,  for  Edith  had  not 
appeared  again.  She  noticed  that  Jack  was  apparently  en- 
joying a  huge  joke,  and  instead  of  taking  the  horse  to  the 
barn,  he  remained  to  hear  what  Aunt  Betsey  had  to  say. 

Miss  Trinkett  sank  into  a  chair  and  untied  her  bonnet- 
strings  with  a  jerk. 

"  Maria  Parker  is  losing  her  mind,"  she  announced. 
"  As  for  me,  I  shall  never  go  there  again." 

"  Why  not,  Aunt  Betsey  ?"  murmured  Cynthia,  prepar- 
ing herself  for  the  worst. 

"  She  declares  that  I  was  there  two  weeks  ago,  and  that 
she — she  told  me  the  news  of  my  own  nephew's  engage- 


45 


ment !  She  actually  had  the  effrontery  to  say, '  I  told  you 
so  !'  My  own  nephew  !  When  his  letter  the  other  day 
was  the  first  I  heard  of  it,  and  I  said  to  Silas,  said  I,  '  Si- 
las, nephew  John  Franklin  is  going  to  marry  again,  and 
give  a  mother  to  those  children,  and  I'm  glad  of  it,  and 
I've  just  heard  the  news.'  And  now  for  Maria  Parker 
to  tell  me  that  she  told  me,  and  that  I  was  there  two 
weeks  ago  !  Is  the  woman  crazy,  or  am  I  the  one  that  has 
lost  mv  mind  ?  Why  don't  you  say  something,  Cynthy  ? 
Is  it  possible  you  agree  with  Mrs.  Parker  ?  Come,  now, 
answer  a  question.  Was  I  here  two  weeks  ago,  and  did  I 
go  and  see  Maria  Parker  ?" 

"  No,"  murmured  Cynthia,  her  face  crimson,  her  voice 
almost  inaudible.  But  Aunt  Betsey  was  too  much  excited 
to  notice. 

"Jackie,"  she  said,  turning  to  him,  "will  you  answer 
me  a  question  ?  Did  I  visit  you  two  weeks  ago,  and  did  I 
call  upon  Mrs.  Parker  ?" 

Jack  gave  one  look  at  Cynthia,  and  then,  dropping  on 
the  grass,  rolled  over  and  over  in  an  ecstasy  of  mirth. 

"  You're  in  for  it  now,  Miss  Cynthia !"  he  chuckled. 

Miss  Betsey  drew  herself  up. 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  questions.  Was  I  here 
two  weeks  asfo,  and  did  I  call  upon  Mrs.  Parker?" 

"  No,  no.  Aunt  Betsey !"  shouted  Jack.  "  You  weren't ! 
You  didn't !  Go  ahead,  Cynth  !  Out  with  it !  My  eye, 
I'm  glad  I'm  here  and  nowhere  else !  I've  been  waiting 
for  this  happy  day.  Now  you'll  get  paid  up  for  fooling 
me." 

And  again  he  rolled,  his  long  legs  beating  the  air. 

"  I  think  you  are  mean.  Jack,  when  you  were  the  one 
that  made  me  go  !"  exclaimed  Cynthia,  indignantly.    Then 


46 


she  relapsed  into  silence.  How  could  slie  ever  confess  to 
Aunt  Betsey  ? 

Miss  Trinkett  hastened  the  climax. 

"  I  don't  know  why  Jack  finds  this  so  amusing.  It  is 
not  so  to  ray  mind ;  but  if  you  are  quite  sure  that  I  was 
not  here,  and  that  I  did  not  call  upon  Mrs.  Parker,  I  must 
ask  you  to  drive  down  there  with  me  at  once  and  state 
the  facts  to  her.  I  cannot  have  it  insinuated  that  I  am  no 
longer  capable  of  judging  for  myself,  and  of  knowing  what 
I  do  and  what  I  don't  do.  She  actually  told  me  to  my 
face  that  I  was  getting  childish.  What  would  Silas  say ! 
But  I'll  never  tell  him  that.     I  would  like  to  go  at  once." 

Alas,  there  was  no  help  for  it.  Cynthia  must  confess. 
If  only  Jack  had  not  been  there  ! 

She  rose  from  the  step  where  she  had  been  sitting,  and 
standing  in  front  of  her  little  grandaunt  she  spoke  very 
rapidly. 

"  You  are  right,  and  so  is  Mrs.  Parker.  You  weren't 
here,  but  I  dressed  up  and  went  to  see  her.  I  pretended 
I  was  you.  I  found  your  other  false — I  mean  your  new 
hair.  You  left  it  in  the  drawer.  I  looked  just  like  you, 
and  we  thought  it  would  be  such  fun.  I'm  awfully  sorry, 
Aunt  Betsey,  indeed  I  am.  It  wasn't  such  great  fun,  after 
all." 

At  first  Miss  Betsey  was  speechless.  Then  she  rose  in 
extreme  wrath. 

*'  Cynthy  Franklin,  it  is  more  than  time  you  had  a  moth- 
er. I  nev^er  supposed  you  could  be  so — impertinent;  yes, 
impertinent  1  Made  yourself  look  like  me,  indeed,  and 
going  to  my  most  intimate  friend !  Poor  Mrs.  Parker ! 
There's  no  knowing  what  she  might  have  said,  thinking  it 
was  I.     And  I  telling  her  to-day  she  was  out  of  her  mind, 


■J^^^' 


CVNTHV    FKANKLIN,  It's    MORK    THAN    TIME    YOU    HAD    A    MOTHER'" 


47 


and  various  other  tilings  I'm  distressed  to  think  of.  AVhy^ 
CynthyP' 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  cried  Cynthia,  bursting  into  tears. 
"Do  forgive  me,  Aunt  Betsey." 

"  I  am  not  ready  to  forgive  you  just  yet,  and  whether  I 
ever  will  or  not  remains  to  be  proved.  I  am  disappointed 
in  you  all.  Edith  going  and  shutting  herself  up  when  I 
come,  because  she  doesn't  want  a  step- mother,  and  you 
making  fun  of  an  aged  aunt  —  not  so  very  aged  either. 
Why,  when  Silas  hears  this  I  just  dread  to  think  what 
he'll  say.  I  am  going  home  at  once,  Jack.  You  are  the 
only  well-behaved  one  among  them.  You  may  drive  me 
to  the  train." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Betsey,  not  to-day  !     Please  don't  go." 

*'  I  couldn't  answer  for  my  tongue  if  I  stayed  here  to- 
night. I  had  best  go  home  and  think  it  out.  When  I 
remember  all  I  said  to  Maria  Parker,  and  all  she  said  to 
me,  Pm  about  crazy,  just  as  she  said  I  was." 

And  presently  she  drove  away,  sitting  very  stiff  and 
very  erect  in  the  old  buggy  that  had  held  her  prototype 
two  weeks  before,  and  Cynthia  was  left  in  tears,  with  one 
more  calamity  added  to  her  already  burdened  soul. 

Why  had  she  ever  played  a  practical  joke  ?  If  she  lived 
a  hundred  years  she  never  would  again. 

Edith  heard  the  news  of  Aunt  Betsey's  sudden  departure 
in  silence,  and  Cynthia  received  no  sympathy  from  her. 
And  very  soon  it  was  temporarily  forgotten  in  preparations 
for  the  advent  of  the  bride. 

The  day  came  at  last,  a  beautiful  one  in  June.  The 
house  was  filled  with  lovely  flowers  which  Cynthia  had  ar- 
ranged—  Edith  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it  —  and 
the  supper-table  was  decked  with   the   finest  china  and 


48 


the  old  silver  service  and  candelabra  of  their  great-grand- 
mother. 

The  servants,  who  had  lived  with  them  so  long,  could 
scarcely  do  their  work.  They  peered  from  the  kitchen 
windows  for  a  first  sight  of  their  new  mistress,  and  won- 
dered what  she  would  be  like. 

"  These  are  sorry  times,"  said  Mary  Ann,  the  old  cook, 
as  she  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

Outside  the  place  had  never  looked  so  peacefully  lovely. 
It  was  late,  and  the  afternoon  sun  cast  long  shadows  from 
the  few  trees  on  the  lawn.  In  the  distance  the  cows  were 
heard  lowing  at  milking -time.  At  one  spot  the  river 
could  be  seen  glinting  through  the  trees,  and  June  roses 
filled  the  air  with  fragrance. 

All  was  to  the  outward  eye  just  as  it  had  always  been, 
summer  after  summer,  since  the  Franklins  could  remem- 
ber, and  yet  how  different  it  really  was. 

Jack  had  gone  to  the  station  to  meet  the  travellers. 
Edith,  Cynthia,  Janet,  and  Willy  were  waiting  on  the 
porch,  all  in  their  nicest  clothes.  The  children  had  been 
bribed  to  keep  their  hands  clean,  and  up  to  this  moment 
they  were  immaculate.  Ben  and  Chester  lay  at  full  length 
on  the  banking  in  front  of  the  house ;  they  alone  did  not 
share  the  excitement. 

The  sound  of  wheels  was  heard. 

"  They  are  coming,"  whispered  Cynthia. 

As  for  Edith,  she  was  voiceless. 

And  then  the  carriage  emerged  from  the  trees. 


CHAPTER  V 

"  Do  you  tliink  they  will  really  like  me  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Franklin  for  the  liundredth  time,  and  for  the  hundredth 
time  her  husband  answered,  smiling,  "  I  think  they  really 
will." 

They  were  just  arriving  at  Brenton.  Many  inquiring 
eyes  had  been  turned  towards  them  in  the  train,  for  every 
one  knew  John  Franklin,  and  every  one  surmised  at  once 
that  this  was  the  much-discussed  second  wife. 

It  was  decided  by  those  who  saw  her  that  she  was  a 
very  attractive-looking  woman.  She  was  rather  slight  and 
of  medium  height,  and  she  was  quietly  dressed  in  black, 
for  she  was  in  mourning.  Though  not  actually  pretty,  she 
had  a  charming  and  very  expressive  face,  and  she  was  very 
young-looking.  Somebody  who  sat  in  front  of  her  said 
that  her  voice  was  low  and  very  musical. 

Brenton  decided  at  the  first  glance  that  Mr.  John  Frank- 
lin had  done  very  well  for  himself. 

"  There  is  the  carriage,"  said  he,  as  they  crossed  the 
station  platform. 

"  And  this  is  Jack,  I  am  sure,"  said  his  wife,  holding  out 
her  hand  with  a  smile  which  won  her  step-son  on  the  spot. 
He  was  too  shy,  however,  to  do  more  than  grasp  it  warmly 
as  he  stood  beside  her  with  uncovered  head. 

"  He  is  a  dear,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  just  like  John. 
If  only  the  others  are  as  cordial.  Somehow  I  dread 
Edith." 

4 


50 


She  was  quite  as  excited  as  were  her  step -daughters 
when  she  drove  up  the  avenue  and  her  eyes  fell  for  the 
first  time  upon  the  group  on  the  piazza. 

Cynthia  walked  down  the  path  to  meet  her,  holding 
Janet  and  Willy  by  either  hand.  Edith  remained  stand- 
ing on  the  step. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  said  Cynthia,  with  a  cordial  smile. 

Mrs.  Franklin  looked  at  her.  Then  she  put  her  arms 
around  her  and  kissed  her. 

"This  is  Cynthia,  I  am  sure,"  she  whispered,  tremulous- 
ly, "  and  these  are  '  the  children.'  " 

She  kissed  them  and  passed  on  to  her  husband's  eldest 
daughter,  while  they  greeted  their  father. 

Edith  was  very  tall,  and  her  position  on  the  step  gave 
her  the  advantage  of  several  inches  in  addition.  She  fairly 
towered  above  the  new-comer. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Franklin,"  she  said,  holding  out 
a  very  stiff  hand  and  arm.  She  had  made  up  her  mind 
that  she  for  one  would  not  be  kissed. 

"  And  you  are  Edith  ?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Franklin,  I  am  Edith.  I  hope  your  journey 
has  not  tired  you  ?" 

"  Not  at  all.     I  am  not  easily  tired." 

Edith  kissed  her  father,  then  turned  again  to  the  stranger. 

"  Let  me  show  you  the  way  up-stairs." 

And  thus  Mrs.  Franklin  entered  her  new  home. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  going  to  be  war  with  Edith  at  first, 
but  I  won't  be  disheartened,"  she  thought.  "I'll  make 
her  like  me.  It  is  natural  for  her  to  feel  so,  I  suppose. 
Ah  me,  I  am  in  a  difficult  position." 

Edith  and  Cynthia  shared  the  same  room.     It  was  a 


51 


large  one  with  a  bay-window,  which  commanded  a  fine 
view  of  the  winding  river  and  the  meadows  beyond. 

One  could  tell  at  a  glance  upon  entering  the  room  which 
part  of  it  Edith  occupied,  and  which  Cynthia.  Cynthia's 
dressing-table,  with  its  ungainly  pin-cushion,  its  tangle  of 
ribbons  and  neckties  tossed  down  anywhere  that  they 
might  happen  to  fall,  its  medley  of  horseshoes,  tennis 
balls,  and  other  treasures,  was  a  constant  source  of  trial  to 
Edith,  whose  possessions  were  always  kept  in  perfect  neat- 
ness. She  scolded  and  lectured  her  sister  in  vain ;  Cyn- 
thia was  incorrigible. 

"It's  too  much  bother  to  keep  things  in  order,"  she 
would  say.  "  After  you  have  been  around  with  your 
duster  and  your  tixings-up  I  never  can  find  a  thing,  Edith." 

The  night  of  Mrs.  Franklin's  arrival  they  talked  over  the 
new  state  of  family  affairs. 

"  I  think  she  is  nice,"  said  Cynthia,  with  decision.  "  I 
like  her,  and  so  does  Jack." 

She  was  perched  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  leaning  against 
the  tall  post,  her  favorite  position  when  she  had  anything 
of  especial  interest  to  discuss. 

<'  I  don't,"  said  Edith,  who  was  brushing  out  her  long 
hair  with  great  vigor.     "  I  don't,  and  I  won't  P'' 

"That  is  just  it,  Edith.  You  have  made  up  your 
mind  you  won't  like  her  just  because  you  didn't  want 
her  to  come.  Now  she  is  here,  why  don't  you  make  the 
best  of  it  ?     What  do  you  dislike  about  her  ?" 

"  Her  coming  here.     She  had  no  right  to." 

"  Edith,  how  silly  you  are  !  She  wouldn't  have  come  if 
papa  had  not  asked  her,  and  she  wouldn't  have  if  she  had 
not  loved  papa.  I  should  think  you  would  like  her  for 
that  if  nothing  else.     I  do.     And  she  is  pretty  and  sweet 


and  dear,  and  I  am  going  to  help  her  all  I  can.  I  think  I 
shall  even  call  her  *  mamma.'  " 

"  Cynthia,  I  shall  never  do  that.  Never,  to  my  dying 
day!" 

"  Well,  I  shall ;  that  is,  if  she  doesn't  mind." 

"  She  will.     It  will  make  her  seem  too  old." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  would  mind  that,  and  any  one  can 
see  she  isn't  a  bit  old.  I  think  we  are  very  fortunate,  as 
long  as  papa  was  going  to  marry  again,  to  have  him  find 
such  a  nice,  lovely  woman." 

Edith  did  not  reply.  She  finished  her  braid  and  tied  it 
up.     Then  she  said  : 

"  Of  course,  it  is  a  great  deal  harder  for  me  than  for  the 
rest  of  you.  I  thought  I  was  always  going  to  help  father, 
and  now  I  can't." 

*'  Of  course  it's  hard,  Edith,  but — but  don't  you  think 
you  could  still  help  him  if — if  you  were  nice  to  his  wife  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  help  him  that  way,"  said  Edith,  hon- 
estly, as  she  blew  out  the  light. 

The  next  day  when  Cynthia  asked  somewhat  timidly  if 
she  might  call  her  step-mother  "  mamma,"  she  was  sur- 
prised and  touched  by  the  expression  that  came  into  Mrs. 
Franklin's  face. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Cynthia !"  she  said.  "  I  thought  I 
would  not  ask  you,  I  would  just  leave  it  to  you,  but  I 
should  like  it  so  much." 

And  so  they  all  called  her  by  her  new  title  except  Edith. 

Preparations  for  the  tennis  tournament  were  in  full 
swing,  and  Cynthia  and  Jack,  who  were  to  play  together 
in  mixed  doubles,  were  practising  hard. 

The  court  at  Oakleigh  was  not  a  good  one,  so  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  going  to  the  tennis  club  at  the  village 


i       M 


I  don't  like  her,  and  I  won't  '  " 


53 


when  they  could  get  there  in  the  afternoon.  It  was  not 
always  easy,  for  they  were  short  of  horses,  and  it  was  too 
far  to  walk  both  ways. 

"  Why  do  we  not  have  some  more  horses  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Franklin  one  morning  when  the  question  was  being  dis- 
cussed. 

"Why,  we  can't  afford  to,"  replied  Cynthia,  in  some 
surprise.  *' Besides  the  farm  horses  we  only  have  two, 
vou  know,  and  they  get  all  used  up  going  to  and  from 
the  village  so  much." 

Mrs.  Franklin  glanced  at  her  husband.  Then  she  said, 
*'  It  seems  as  if  we  ought  to  have  more.  You  know, 
John,  there  is  all  that  money  of  mine.  Why  not  buy  a 
horse  and  trap  for  the  children  to  use  ?" 

"  My  dear  Hester,  I  can  never  consent.  You  know  I  wish 
you  to  keep  all  your  money  for  your  own  exclusive  use. 
You  may  have  all  the  horses  you  want  for  yourself,  but — " 

"  John,  don't  be  absurd.  What  can  I  do  with  all  that 
money,  and  no  one  but  Neal  to  provide  for  ?  Your  chil- 
dren are  mine  now,  and  I  wish  them  to  have  a  horse  of 
their  own." 

The  thing  of  all  others  for  which  Edith  had  been  long- 
ing for  years.  But  she  determined  that  she  would  never 
use  her  step-mother's  gift. 

"  Is  Neal  your  brother  ?"  asked  Cynthia. 

"  Yes.  Haven't  I  told  you  about  him  ?  He  is  my  dear 
and  only  brother.  He  is  off  on  a  yacht  now,  but  he  is 
coming  here  soon.  He  is  older  than  you  and  Jack,  just 
about  Edith's  age." 

Jack  looked  up  with  interest. 

"  I'm  glad  there's  another  fellow  coming,"  he  said. 
"  There  are  almost  too  many  girls  round  here." 


54 


"  Jack,  how  hateful  of  yon,  when  you  always  have  said 
I  was  as  good  as  another  fellow  !"  exclaimed  Cynthia. 

"  Well,  so  you  are,  almost ;  but  I'm  glad  he's  coming, 
anyway." 

The  new  horse  was  bought,  and  a  pretty  and  comfort- 
able cart  for  them  to  use,  a  "surrey"  that  would  hold  two 
or  four,  as  occasion  required.  At  first  Edith  would  not 
use  it.  She  jogged  about  with  the  old  horse  and  buggy 
when  she  went  to  the  village,  thereby  exciting  much  com- 
ment among  her  friends.  Every  one  suspected  that  Edith 
could  not  reconcile  herself  to  the  coming  of  her  step- 
mother. 

The  day  of  the  tournament  arrived.  Before  Mr.  Frank- 
lin went  to  Boston  that  morning  he  called  Edith  into  the 
library  and  closed  the  door. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Edith.  I  have  been 
perfectly  observant  of  your  conduct  since  I  came  home, 
though  I  have  not  spoken  of  it  before.  I  preferred  to 
wait,  to  give  you  a  chance  to  think  better  of  it.  Your 
treatment  of  my  wife  is  not  only  rude,  it  is  unkind,  as 
rudeness  always  is." 

"  Father,  I  haven't  been  rude.  Why  do  you  speak  to 
me  so  ?     It  is  all  her  fault.     She  has  made  you  do  it." 

"  Hester  has  not  mentioned  the  subject  to  me,  Edith. 
You  are  most  unjust.  You  are  making  yourself  very  con- 
spicuous, and  are  placing  me  in  a  very  false  light  by  your 
behavior.    Are  you  going  to  the  tennis  tournament  to-day  ?'* 

"Yes,  papa." 

"  How  do  you  intend  to  get  there  ?" 

"  Drive  myself  in  the  buggy,  of  course." 

"There  is  no  *of  course'  about  it,"  said  her  father, 
growing  more  and  more  angry.     "  If  you  go,  yon  will  go 


55 


as  the  others  do,  in  the  surrey.  I  will  not  have  them  go 
down  with  an  empty  seat,  while  you  rattle  in  to  the 
grounds  in  the  old  buggy  in  the  eyes  of  all  Brenton." 

"  Then  I  won't  go  at  all.  The  buggy  was  good  enough 
before ;  why  isn't  it  now  ?" 

"  Not  another  word  !  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Edith,  and 
disappointed.  I  have  no  time  for  more,  but  remember 
what  I  have  said.  You  go  in  the  surrey  to  the  tourna- 
ment, or  you  stay  at  home." 

He  left  her  and  hurried  off  to  the  train.  Edith  went  to 
her  own  room  and  shut  herself  in.  For  more  than  an  hour 
a  bitter  fight  raged  within  her.    Her  pride  was  up  in  arms. 

If  she  gave  up  and  drove  to  the  club  in  the  surrey, 
every  one  would  know  that  she  was  countenancing  her 
step-mother,  as  she  expressed  it,  and  she  had  told  Ger- 
trude Morgan  that  she  would  never  do  it.  If  she  stayed 
at  home  she  would  excite  more  comment  still,  for  it  was 
generally  known  that  she  was  to  act  as  one  of  the  host- 
esses, and  she  had  no  reasonable  excuse  to  offer  for  stay- 
ing away. 

Altogether  Edith  thought  herself  a  much-abused  person, 
and  she  cried  until  her  eyes  were  swollen,  her  cheeks  pale, 
and  her  nose  red. 

Cynthia  burst  in  upon  her. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Edith  ?  You  look  like  a  perfect 
fright !     Are  you  ill  ?" 

"  111 !  No,  of  course  not.  I  wish  you  would  leave  me 
in  peace,  Cynthia.     What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  To  come  into  my  own  room,  of  course.  But  what  is 
the  matter,  Edith  ?     Was  papa  scolding  you  ?" 

Edith,  longing  for  sympathy,  poured  out  the  story,  but 
she  did  not  receive  much  from  that  practical  young  person. 


56 


"  I  wouldn't  cry  my  eyes  out  about  that.  Of  course 
you  will  have  to  do  as  papa  says,  or  he  won't  like  it  at 
all.  And  it  is  a  thousand  times  nicer  to  drive  in  the 
surrey  than  that  old  rattle-trap  of  a  buggy.  The  surrey 
runs  so  smoothly,  and  Bess  goes  like  a  breeze.  You  had 
better  give  in  gracefully,  Edith.  But  see  this  lovely 
silver  buckle  and  belt  mamma  has  just  given  me  to  wear 
this  afternoon.  Isn't  it  perfect  ?  She  says  she  has  more 
than  she  can  wear.  It  was  one  of  her  own.  /  think  she's 
a  dear.     But  there  is  Jack  calling  me  to  practise." 

And  happy-hearted  Cynthia  -was  off  again  like  a  flash. 

Edith  bathed  her  face  and  began  to  think  better  of  the 
subject.  After  all,  she  would  go.  It  was  a  lovely  day, 
every  one  would  be  there,  and  it  was  not  worth  while 
to  make  people  talk.  Above  all,  she  would  be  sorry  to 
miss  the  affair  to  which  she  had  been  looking  forward  for 
weeks. 

She  dressed  herself  that  afternoon  in  a  simple  gingham 
that  had  seen  the  wash-tub  many  times,  and  took  her 
place  on  the  back  seat  of  the  surrey,  with  Mrs.  Franklin, 
Jack,  and  Cynthia  sitting  in  front.  Mrs.  Franklin  was  in 
the  daintiest  of  summer  frocks,  and  Edith  glanced  at  her 
somewhat  enviously. 

"  I  wish  we  were  the  ones  that  had  the  money,"  she 
thought,  "  and  that  she  were  poor.  I  believe  then  I  should 
not  mind  having  her  so  much." 

Mrs.  Franklin  had  a  gay  and  cheery  disposition,  and 
she  tried  to  pay  no  attention  to  Edith's  coldness. 

"  I  wish  I  were  going  to  play  myself,"  she  said,  as  they 
drove  off. 

"  Why,  do  you  play  ?"  asked  Cynthia,  turning  around  in 
surprise. 


57 


"  To  be  sure  1  do.  I  used  to  play  a  great  deal  at  one 
time.  I  mean  to  ask  your  father  to  have  the  tennis-court 
at  Oaldeigh  made  over,  and  then  we  can  have  some  games 
there." 

"  How  jolly  !"  exclaimed  Jack  and  Cynthia  together. 

"  "VVe  cannot  afford  to,"  put  in  Edith,  coldly. 

Mrs.  Franklin  paid  no  attention  to  this.  "  It  will  be 
nice  when  Neal  comes,"  she  added. 

"Neal,  always  Neal,"  thought  Edith.  "Pleasant  for 
us  to  have  a  strange  boy  here  all  the  time.  Oh,  dear, 
how  hateful  I  am  !  I  don't  feel  nice  towards  anybody. 
If  only  papa  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  the  Gordons,  how 
much  happier  we  should  all  have  been." 

But  she  was  the  only  one  of  the  household  that  thought 
so.  The  younger  children  had  been  completely  won  over', 
and  it  was  a  constant  source  of  surprise  and  chagrin  to 
Edith  to  see  how  easily  their  step-mother  managed  the 
hitherto  refractory  pair. 

Before  long  the  party  reached  the  grounds.  The  Bren- 
ton  Tennis  Club  was  a  very  attractive  place.  The  smooth 
and  well-kept  courts  stretched  away  to  the  river,  which 
wound  and  curved  towards  the  old  town,  for  the  club  was 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  The  river  was  wider  here 
than  it  was  farther  up  at  Oakleigh,  and  picturesque  stone 
bridges  crossed  it  at  intervals. 

Benches  had  been  placed  all  about  the  grounds,  from 
which  the  spectators  could  watch  the  game,  and  under  a 
marquee  was  a  dainty  table,  with  huge  bowls  of  lemonade 
and  plates  of  cake.  Edith  presided  at  the  tea-kettle,  look- 
ing very  pretty,  notwithstanding  her  old  gown  and  the 
stormy  morning  she  had  passed. 

Mrs.  Franklin,  upon  whom  most  of  the  Brenton  people 


58 


had  already  called,  sat  on  one  of  the  benches  with  some 
friends,  and  was  soon  absorbed  in  the  game. 

Cynthia  played  well.  She  flew  about  the  court,  here, 
there,  everywhere  at  once,  never  interfering  with  her  part- 
ner's game,  but  always  ready  with  her  own  play.  She  and 
Jack,  though  younger  than  the  other  players,  held  their 
ground  well. 

It  was  only  a  small  tournament,  and  "mixed  doubles" 
were  finished  up  in  one  afternoon.  Jack  and  Cynthia  car- 
rying off  second  prizes  with  great  glee. 

"Just  what  I  wanted,  mamma,"  said  Cynthia,  as  she 
displayed  a  fine  racket  of  the  latest  style  and  shape ;  "  I 
hope  they  will  have  another  tournament  before  the  sum- 
mer is  over,  so  that  I'll  have  a  chance  to  win  first  prize 
with  this  ncAV  racket." 

They  were  driving  home  in  the  dusk,  for  the  game  had 
lasted  late,  when  they  overtook  and  passed  a  boy  who  was 
walking  on  the  road  to  Oakleigh,  with  a  bag  slung  over 
his  shoulder  on  a  stick,  while  a  black  spaniel  trotted  along 
at  his  heels.     Mrs.  Franklin  did  not  see  him. 

"  I  say  there,  Hessie  i  Can't  you  give  a  fellow  a  lift  ?" 
he  shouted. 

"  Why,  Neal !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Franklin  ;  "  where  did 
you  come  from  ?  Jack,  stop,  please.  It  is  Neal !  You 
dear  boy,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  !  This  is  my  brother, 
children ;  and,  Neal,  here  are  Edith,  Cynthia,  and  Jack 
Franklin." 

"  Whew,  what  a  lot !  I  say,  Hessie,  what  were  you 
thinking  of  when  you  married  such  a  family  as  that? 
But  I  fancy  you  haven't  got  room  for  me  in  there.  I  can 
walk  it  easily  enough.     Don't  mind  a  bit." 

"  Nonsense  !  we  can  squeeze  up,"  said  his  sister,  which 


59 


they  did  forthwith,  and  Neal  Gordon  climbed  into  the 
cart. 

"  No  room  for  you,  Bob,"  he  remarked  to  the  spaniel, 
■who  danced  about  the  road  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  follow 
his  master;  "you  can  go  ahead  on  your  own  legs." 

He  was  a  tall,  well-developed  fellow,  with  a  hearty, 
cheery  voice,  and  a  frank,  sometimes  embarrassing,  way 
of  saying  the  first  thing  that  came  into  his  head. 

"  What  a  crowd !"  he  continued.  "  Any  more  at 
home  ?" 

"  Yes,  two,"  said  his  sister,  gayly — "  Janet  and  Willy. 
T  am  so  glad  you  have  come,  Neal.  But  why  didn't  you 
let  us  know  ?" 

"  Couldn't.  The  Dolphin  put  in  at  Marblehead,  and  I 
had  gotten  rather  tired  of  it  aboard,  so  I  thought  I'd  cut 
loose  and  drop  down  on  you  awhile.  Got  out  of  cash, 
too." 

"  Oh,  Neal !" 

"Now  you  needn't  say  anything.  You  didn't  give  me 
half  enough  this  time.  Too  much  absorbed  getting  mar- 
ried, I  suppose.  I  say,"  he  added,  turning  to  Jack,  "  what 
kind  of  a  step-ma  does  Hessie  make  ?" 

"Bully,"  replied  Jack,  laconically. 

"  I  thought  she  would,  but  she's  on  her  best  behavior 
now.  She'll  order  you  all  round  soon,  the  way  she  does 
me." 

"  They  don't  deserve  it  as  you  do,  you  silly  boy,"  said 
his  sister. 

They  were  a  merry  party  that  night  at  supper.  It 
seemed  as  if  Neal  would  be  a  great  addition  to  the  fam- 
ily, and  even  Edith  thawed  somewhat.  This  pleased  Mr. 
Franklin,  who  had  been  thoroughly  annoyed  by  her  be- 


60 


havior,  and  who  had  been  really  afraid  that  she  would 
stay  at  home  from  the  tournament  rather  than  use  his 
wife's  gift. 

"Everything  will  run  smoothly  now,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, and,  manlike,  he  soon  forgot  all  about  the  trouble. 

"  By-the-way,  what  relation  am  I  to  this  family  ?"  asked 
Neal,  presently.  "  If  Hester  is  your  mother,  of  course  I 
must  be  your  uncle.  I  hope  you  will  all  treat  me  with 
proper  respect." 

"  I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to,"  said  Cynthia,  looking 
up  with  a  saucy  smile.  She  liked  the  new-comer  im- 
mensely. 

"  Did  you  ever  run  an  incubator  ?"  asked  Jack,  after 
supper. 

"  Not  I.     Have  you  got  one  ?" 

"  Yes.     Come  along  down  and  see  it." 

They  descended  to  the  cellar,  and  Jack  turned  the  eggs 
while  he  explained  his  methods  to  his  new  friend. 

"  Is  there  money  in  it?"  asked  Neal. 

"  Lots,  I  hope.  But  the  trouble  is,  you've  got  to  spend 
a  lot  to  start  with,  and  if  you're  not  successful  it's  a  dead 
loss.     My  first  hatch  went  to  smash." 

"  How  would  you  like  to  take  me  into  partnership  ?  I 
want  to  make  some  money." 

"  First-rate." 

They  were  deep  in  a  discussion  of  business  arrange- 
ments when  they  went  back  to  the  others. 

"  We'll  make  a  '  go '  of  it,"  said  Neal.  "  It's  just  the 
thing  I've  been  looking  for." 

"  I  have  an  idea.  Jack,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin,  as  they 
came  in.     "  When  are  the  chickens  to  come  out?" 

"  Next  Thursday." 


61 


"Then  we  will  celebrate  the  event  in  proper  style.  We 
will  ask  our  friends  to  come  to  a  '  hatching  bee.' " 

"  But  suppose  they  don't  hatch  ?  Suppose  they  act  the 
way  they  did  before  ?"  said  Jack,  dubiously. 

<'  Oh,  they'll  hatch,  I  will  answer  for  them.  You  have 
learned  how  to  take  better  care  of  them,  and  no  one  has 
interfered,  and  —  oh,  I  am  sure  they  will  be  out  in  fine 
shape !" 

Only  Edith  objected  to  this  proposition,  and  she  dared 
not  say  so  before  her  father. 

Apparently  the  Gordons  were  going  to  carry  all  before 
them,  and  she,  who  until  so  recently  had  been  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  the  mistress  of  the  house,  was  not  even 
asked  if  she  approved  of  the  idea.  She  went  to  bed  feel- 
ing that  her  lot  was  a  very  hard  one. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Jack  and  Neal  entered  into  partnership  in  tlie  poultry 
business. 

"  You  see  I  slia'n't  have  a  cent  of  my  own  until  I  am 
twenty-five,"  explained  Neal, "  and  my  old  grandmother 
left  most  of  the  cash  to  Hessie.  She  had  some  crazy,  old- 
fashioned  notions  about  men  being  able  to  work  for  their 
living,  but  women  couldn't.  It's  all  a  mistake.  Nowadays 
women  can  work  just  as  well  as  men,  if  not  better.  Be- 
sides, they  marry,  and  their  husbands  ought  to  support 
them.     Now  what  am  I  going  to  do  when  I  marry?" 

Cynthia,  who  was  present  at  this  discussion,  gave  a  little 
laugh. 

"Are  you  thinking  of  taking  this  important  step  very 
soon  ?  Perhaps  you  will  have  time  to  earn  a  little  first. 
Chickens  may  help  you.  Or  you  might  choose  a  wife 
who  will  work — you  say  women  do  it  better  than  men — 
and  she  will  be  pleased  to  support  you,  I  have  no  doubt." 

They  were  on  the  river,  tied  up  under  an  overhanging 
tree.  Cynthia,  who  had  been  paddling,  sat  in  the  stern  of 
the  canoe  ;  the  boys  were  stretched  in  the  bottom.  It  was 
a  warm,  lazy-feeling  day  for  all  but  Cynthia.  The  boys 
had  been  taking  their  ease  and  allowing  her  to  do  the 
work,  which  she  was  always  quite  w^illing  to  do. 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  it  is,"  continued  Neal,  ignoring  Cyn- 
thia's sarcasm,  <'  I'll  have  a  tidy  little  sum  when  I  am 
twenty-five,  and  until  then  ITessie  is  to  make  me  an  allow- 


63 


ance  and  pay  my  school  and  college  expenses.  She's 
pretty  good  about  it — about  giving  me  extras  now  and 
then,  I  mean — but  you  sort  of  hate  to  be  always  nagging  at 
a  girl  for  money.  It  was  a  rum  way  of  doing  the  thing, 
anyhow,  making  me  dependent  on  her.  I  wish  my  grand- 
mother hadn't  been  such  a  hoot-owl." 

Cynthia  looked  at  him  reprovingly. 

"  You  are  terribly  disrespectful,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
think  you  needn't  make  such  a  fuss.  You're  pretty  lucky 
to  have  such  a  sister  as  mamma." 

"Oh,  Hessie  might  be  worse,  I  don't  deny.  It's  im- 
mense to  hear  you  great  girls  calling  her  'mamma,'  though, 
I  never  thought  to  see  Hessie  marry  a  widower  with  a  lot 
of  children.     What  was  she  thinking  of,  anyway  ?" 

"  Well,  you  are  polite !  She  was  probably  thinking 
what  a  very  nice  man  my  father  is,"  returned  Cynthia, 
loftily. 

"  He  is  a  pretty  good  fellow.  So  far  I  haven't  found 
him  a  bad  sort  of  brother-in-law.  I  don't  know  how  it 
•will  be  when  I  put  in  my  demand  for  a  bigger  allowance 
in  the  fall.  I  have  an  idea  he  could  be  pretty  stiff  on 
those  occasions.  But  that's  why  I  want  to  go  into  the 
poultry  business." 

"  And  I  don't  mind  having  you,"  said  Jack.  "  Sharing 
the  profits  is  sharing  the  expense,  and  so  far  I've  seen 
more  expense  than  profit.  However,  when  they  begin  to 
lay  and  we  send  the  eggs  to  market  then  the  money  will 
pour  in.  I  say,  we  don't  do  anything  but  sell  eggs.  It 
would  be  an  awful  bore  to  get  broilers  ready  for  market. 
By-the-way,  I  think  we  had  better  go  back  now  and  finish 
up  that  brooder  we  were  making." 

"Oh,  no  hurry,"  said  Neal.     "It  won't  take  three  min- 


64 


utes  to  do  that,  and  it's  jolly  out  here.  It's  the  coolest 
place  I've  been  in  to-day.  Let's  talk  some  more  about  the 
poultry  business.  We'll  call  ourselves  '  Franklin  &  Gor- 
don, Oakleigh  Poultry  Farm.'  That  will  look  dandy  on 
the  bill-heads.  And  we'll  make  a  specialty  of  those  pure 
white  eggs.     I  say,  Cynthia,  what  are  you  grinning  at?" 

"  I  am  not  grinning.     I  am  not  a  Cheshire  cat." 

*'  I  don't  know.  I've  already  felt  your  claws  once  or 
twice.  But  you've  got  something  funny  in  your  head. 
The  corners  of  your  mouth  are  twitching,  and  your  eyes 
are  dancing  like — like  the  river." 

Cynthia  cast  up  her  blue  eyes  in  mock  admiration. 

"  Hear !  hear !  He  grows  poetical.  But  as  you  are  so 
very  anxious  to  know  what  I  am  '  grinning '  at,"  she  add- 
ed, demurely,  "  I'll  tell  you.  I  was  only  thinking  of  a  little 
proverb  I  have  heard.  It  had  something  to  do  with 
counting  chickens  before  they  are  hatched." 

"Oh,  come  off!"  exclaimed  Jack,  while  Neal  laughed 
good-naturedly. 

"  And  I've  also  a  suggestion  to  make,"  went  on  Cyn- 
thia. "  From  what  I  have  gathered  during  our  short  ac- 
quaintance, I  think  Mr.  Neal  Gordon  isn't  over-fond  of 
exerting  himself.  I  think  it  would  be  a  good  idea.  Jack, 
when  you  sign  your  partnership  papers,  or  whatever  they 
are,  to  put  in  something  about  dividing  the  work  as  well  as 
the  expense  and  the  profits." 

*'  There  go  your  claws  again,"  said  Neal.  "  Let's 
change  the  subject  by  trying  to  catch  a  *  lucky-bug,'  "  and 
he  made  a  grab  towards  the  myriads  of  insects  that  were 
darting  hither  and  thither  on  the  surface  of  the  water. 
*'  I'll  give  a  prize.  This  fine  new  silver  quarter  to  the 
one  who  catches  a  'lucky-bug.'  " 


65 


He  laid  the  money  on  the  thwart  of  the  boat  and  made 
another  dash. 

"  When  you  have  lived  on  the  river  as  long  as  I  have 
you'll  know  that  '  lucky-bugs '  can't  be  caught,"  said  Cyn- 
thia.    "  Now  see  what  you  have  done,  you  silly  boy  !" 

For  with  Neal's  last  effort  the  quarter  had  flown  from 
the  canoe  and  sunk  with  a  splash  in  the  river. 

"  Good-bye,  quarter  !"  sang  Neal.  "  I  might  find  you 
if  I  thought  it  would  pay  to  get  wet  for  the  likes  of  you." 

"  If  that  is  the  way  you  treat  quarters,  I  don't  wonder 
you  think  your  allowance  isn't  big  enough,"  said  Cynthia, 
severely ;  "  and  may  I  ask  you  a  question?" 

"  You  may  ask  a  dozen ;  but  the  thing  is,  will  I  answer 
them  ?" 

"  You  will  if  I  ask  them.  Were  you  ever  in  a  canoe 
before  ?" 

*'  A  desire  to  crush  you  tempts  me  to  say  *  yea,'  but  a 
stern  regard  for  truth  compels  me  to  answer  '  nay.' " 

"  You  couldn't  crush  me  if  you  tried  for  a  week,  and 
you  couldn't  make  me  believe  you  had  ever  been  in  a 
canoe  before,  for  your  actions  show  you  haven't.  People 
that  have  spent  their  time  on  yachts  and  sail-boats  think 
they  can  go  prancing  about  in  a  canoe  and  catch  all  the 
lucky-bugs  they  want.  When  you  have  upset  us  all  you 
will  stop  prancing,  I  suppose." 

*'  Claws  again,"  groaned  Neal,  in  exaggerated  despair. 

"  I  say,  Cynth,  let's  go  back  and  put  him  to  work  on 
that  brooder,"  said  Jack,  who  had  been  enjoying  this 
sparring  -  match.  "We'll  see  what  work  we  can  get  out 
of  him." 

And,  notwithstanding  his  remonstrances,  Neal  was  pad- 
dled home  and  put  to  work.     Cynthia's  <'  claws  "  did  take 


66 


effect,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  began  to  feel  a 
little  ashamed  of  being  so  lazy. 

Jack  was  one  of  the  plodding  kind.  His  mind  was  not 
as  brilliant  as  Neal's  nor  his  tongue  as  ready,  but  at  the 
end  of  the  year  he  would  have  more  to  show  than  Neal 
Gordon. 

Mrs.  Franklin  carried  out  her  plan  of  inviting  their 
friends  to  the  "  hatching  bee,"  and  Thursday  was  the  day 
on  which  the  chicks  were  expected  to  come  out.  As  the 
morning  wore  on  Cynthia's  excitement  grew  more  and 
more  intense,  and  all  the  family  shared  it. 

"What  shall  we  do  if  they  don't  come  out?"  she  ex- 
claimed a  dozen  times. 

At  one  o'clock  a  crack  was  discovered  in  one  of  the 
eggs  in  the  "  thermometer  row."  At  three  it  was  a  de- 
cided break,  and  several  others  could  be  seen.  Cynthia 
declared  that  she  heard  a  chirping,  but  it  was  very  faint. 

Mrs.  Franklin  remained  up-stairs  to  receive  the  guests, 
who  came  down  as  soon  as  they  arrived.  There  were 
about  a  dozen  girls  and  boys.  Fortunately  the  cellar  was 
large  and  airy,  and  the  coolest  place  to  be  found  on  this 
warm  summer  day. 

And  presently  the  fun  began.  Pop  !  pop  !  went  one 
egg  after  another,  and  out  came  a  little  struggling  chick, 
which  in  due  time  floundered  across  the  other  eggs  or  the 
deserted  egg-shells,  and  flopped  down  to  the  gravel  be- 
neath on  the  lower  floor  of  the  machine.  It  was  funny 
to  see  them,  and,  as  they  gradually  recovered  from  their 
efforts  and  their  feathers  dried  off,  the  little  downy  balls 
crowded  at  the  front  and,  chirping  loudly,  peeked*  at  the 
glass. 

Mrs.  Franklin  joined  them  now  and  then,  and  at  last, 


67 


when  about  seventy  chicks  had  been  hatched,  she  insisted 
upon  all  coming  up-stairs  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air  before 
supper. 

Here  a  surprise  awaited  them.  Unknown  to  her 
daughters  Mrs.  Franklin  had  given  orders  that  the  supper- 
table  should  be  arranged  upon  the  lawn  in  the  shade  of 
the  house,  and  when  Edith  stepped  out  on  the  piazza  she 
paused  in  astonishment. 

What  terrible  innovation  into  the  manners  and  customs 
of  Oakleigh  was  this?  Last  year,  for  a  little  party  the 
children  gave,  she  had  wanted  tea  on  the  lawn,  but  it  could 
not  be  accomplished.  How  had  the  new-comer  managed 
to  do  it  ? 

"  Isn't  this  too  lovely  !"  cried  Gertrude  Morgan,  enthu- 
siastically, turning  to  Edith.  "My  dear,  I  think  you  are 
the  luckiest  girl  I  ever  knew,  to  have  any  one  give  you 
such  a  surprise.  Didn't  you  really  know  a  thing  about 
it?" 

''  I  have  been  consulted  about  nothing,"  returned  Edith, 
stiffly.  She  would  have  liked  to  run  up-stairs  and  hide, 
out  of  sight  of  the  whole  affair. 

"  I  hope  you  like  the  effect,  Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin, 
coming  up  to  her  as  she  stood  on  the  piazza  step.  "I 
thought  it  would  be  great  fun  to  surprise  you." 

"  I  detest  surprises  of  all  kinds,"  replied  Edith,  turning 
away,  "and  it  seems  to  me  I  have  had  nothing  else, 
lately." 

Much  disappointed  and  greatly  hurt,  Mrs.  Franklin  was 
about  to  speak  again,  but  at  this  moment  Cynthia,  en- 
chanted with  the  success  of  the  hatch  and  with  the  pretty 
sight  on  the  lawn,  rushed  up  to  her  step-mother  and 
squeezed  her  arm. 


68 


"  You  are  a  perfect  dear  !"  she  whispered.  "  Everything 
is  nicer  since  you  came.  Even  the  chickens  came  out  for 
you,  and  last  time  it  was  so  dreadful."  And  Mrs.  Frank- 
lin smiled  again  and  felt  comforted. 

The  table  was  decorated  with  roses  and  lovely  ferns, 
strewn  here  and  there  with  apparent  carelessness,  but 
really  after  much  earnest  study  of  effects.  Bowls  of  great 
unhulled  strawberries  added  their  touch  of  color,  as  did 
the  generous  slices  of  golden  sponge-cake.  The  dainty 
china  and  glass  gleamed  in  the  afternoon  light,  and  the 
artistic  arrangement  added  not  a  little  to  the  already  good 
appetites  of  the  boys  and  girls. 

Fortunately  Oakleigh  was  equal  to  any  emergency  in 
the  eating  line,  and  as  rapidly  as  the  piles  of  three-cornered 
sandwiches,  fairy-like  rolls,  and  other  goodies  disappeared 
the  dishes  were  replenished  as  if  by  magic. 

After  supper  the  piano  was  rolled  over  to  the  front  win- 
dow in  the  long  parlor. 

"  Put  it  close  to  the  window,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin,  "  and 
I  will  sit  outside,  like  the  eldest  daughter  in  '  The  Peter- 
kins,'  to  play.  That  will  give  me  the  air,  and  you  can 
hear  the  music  better." 

They  danced  on  the  lawn  and  played  games  to  the 
music ;  then  they  gathered  on  the  porch  and  sang  college 
songs,  while  the  sun  sank  at  the  end  of  the  long  summer 
day,  and  the  stars  came  twinkling  out,  and  by-and-by  the 
full  moon  rose  over  the  tree-tops  and  flooded  them  with 
her  light. 

Altogether  Jack's  second  "hatching  bee"  was  a  suc- 
cess. A  good  time,  a  good  supper,  and,  best  of  all,  one 
hundred  and  forty  chickens.  Yes,  it  really  seemed  as  if 
poultry  were  going  to  pay,  and  "  Franklin  &  Gordon,"  of 


69 


tlie  Oakleigli  Poultry  Farm,  went  to  bed  quite  elated  with 
prosperity. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  they  were  discussing 
the  matter,  and  Mr.  Franklin  expressed  his  unqualified  ap- 
proval of  the  scheme. 

"  If  you  succeed  in  raising  your  chickens,  now  that  they 
are  hatched,  Jack,  my  boy,  I  think  you  are  all  right.  You 
owe  Aunt  Betsey  a  debt  of  thanks.  By-the-way,  where  is 
Aunt  Betsey  ?     Have  you  heard  from  her  lately  ?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Jack  exploded  into  a  laugh 
which  he  quickly  repressed,  Edith  looked  very  solemn, 
while  Cynthia  had  the  appearance  of  being  on  the  verge  of 
tears. 

"  I  want  to  see  Aunt  Betsey,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin,  as  she 
buttered  a  roll  for  Willy ;  "  I  think  she  must  be  a  very 
interesting  character." 

"  It  is  very  extraordinary  that  we  have  heard  nothing 
from  her,"  went  on  Mr.  Franklin.  "  What  can  be  the 
meaning  of  it  ?     When  was  she  last  here,  Edith  ?" 

"  In  June." 

"  Was  it  when  I  was  at  home  ?  Hasn't  she  been  here 
since  the  time  she  gave  Jack  the  money  for  the  incuba- 
tor ?" 

"That  was  in  May.  You  were  in  Albany  when  she 
was  here  the  last  time." 

"  It  is  very  strange  that  she  has  never  written  nor  come 
to  see  you,  Hester.  It  can't  be  that  she  is  offended  with 
something,  can  it?  I  must  take  you  up  to  Wayborough 
to  see  the  dear  old  lady.  I  am  very  fond  of  Aunt  Betsey, 
and  I  would  not  hurt  her  feelings  for  the  world." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  into  the  silence  came 
Janet's  shrill  tones. 


70 


"  I  know  why  Aunt  Betsey's  feelings  are  hurted.  They 
was  turribly  hurted.  Edith  an'  Cynthia  an'  Jack  all  knows 
too." 

"Janet,  hush!"  interposed  Edith. 

"  Not  at  all ;  let  the  child  speak,"  said  her  father. 
"What  do  you  know,  Janet?" 

"Aunt  Betsey  came  an'  she  went  to  see  Mrs.  Parker, 
an'  Mrs.  Parker  said  she'd  been  there  before  an'  Aunt 
Betsey  said  she  hadn't,  an'  it  wasn't  Aunt  Betsey  at  all,  it 
was  Cynthia  dressed  up  like  her,  an'  Aunt  Betsey  said  we 
was  all  naughty  'cause  we  didn't  want  the  bride  to  come, 
an'  the  bride  was  mamma  an'  we  didn't  want  her,  it  was 
the  trufe,  an'  Aunt  Betsey  went  off  mad  'cause  Cynthia 
dressed  up  like  her.  She  wouldn't  stay  all  night,  she  just 
■went  off  slam-bang  hopping  mad." 

And  then  Janet's  face  disappeared  behind  her  silver 
mug;  she  needed  the  refreshment  of  milk  after  this 
long  harangue.  But  she  peered  over  the  top  of  the  cup 
at  her  sisters,  and  there  was  a  wicked  delight  in  her  eyes 
at  the  effect  of  her  words. 

"What  does  the  child  mean?"  exclaimed  her  father. 
"  Will  some  one  explain  ?     Edith,  what  was  the  trouble  ?" 

"I  would  rather  not  say,"  said  Edith,  her  eyes  fastened 
on  her  plate. 

"  That  is  no  way  to  speak  to  your  father.  Answer  me 
at  once." 

"  Papa,  I  cannot.     It  is  not  my  affair — " 

"  It  is  your  affair.     I  insist — " 

"  Wait,  John,"  interposed  Mrs.  Franklin. 

"  Not  at  all ;  I  can't  wait.  Edith  was  here  in  charge  of 
the  family.  Something  happened  to  offend  Aunt  Betsey. 
Now  she  must  explain  what  it  was.    I  hold  her  responsible.'* 


71 


*'  Indeed  she's  not,  papa,"  said  Cynthia,  at  last  finding 
her  voice.  "  Edith  is  not  to  blame ;  I  am  the  one.  I 
found  Aunt  Betsey's  false  front,  and  I  dressed  up  and 
looked  exactly  like  her,  and  Jack  drove  me  to  see  Mrs. 
Parker.  Edith  didn't  want  me  to  go  and  I  would  do  it. 
Really,  papa,  Edith  isn't  a  bit  to  blame.  And  then  when 
Aunt  Betsey  came  soon  afterwards  she  went  to  see  Mrs. 
Parker,  and  she  didn't  like  it  because  she  said  she  had 
been  there  two  weeks  ago  and  told  her — I  mean,  Mrs. 
Parker  told  me  about — " 

Cynthia  stopped  abruptly. 

"  Well,  go  on,"  said  her  father,  impatiently. 

Still  Cynthia  said  nothing. 

*'  Cynthia,  will  you  continue  ?     If  not — " 

"  Oh  yes,  papa,  though  —  but  —  well,  Mrs.  Parker  told 
me  that  you  were  going  to  marry  again.  x\nd  then  when 
Aunt  Betsey  really  went,  Mrs.  Parker  said, '  I  told  you  so.' 
Aunt  Betsey  didn't  like  that,  and  when  she  asked  us  if 
she  had  been  here,  of  course  we  had  to  say  no,  and  she  was 
going  right  back  to  tell  Mrs.  Parker  what  we  said ;  so  I 
had  to  confess,  and,  of  course.  Aunt  Betsey  didn't  like  it, 
and  she  went  right  home  that  day." 

Mr.  Franklin  pushed  back  his  chair  from  the  table,  and 
began  to  walk  up  and  down. 

"  I  am  perfectly  astonished  at  your  doing  such  a  thing, 
and  more  astonished  still  that  Edith — " 

"  Papa,  please  don't  say  another  word  about  Edith. 
She  didn't  want  me  to  go,  and  I  would  do  it." 

"  Why  have  you  not  told  me  all  this  before  ?" 

"  Because,  you  see,  I  couldn't.  I  had  heard  that  you 
were  going  to  be  married,  and  I  didn't  believe  it  until  you 
told  me ;  at  least — " 


72 


Cynthia  paused  and  grew  uncomfortably  red. 

"  Poor  child !"  said  Mrs.  Franklin,  smiling  at  her  sym- 
pathetically.    "  It  must  have  been  very  hard  for  you." 

"  It  was,"  said  Cynthia,  simply ;  "  only  you  know, 
mamma,  I  don't  feel  a  bit  so  now.  And  then  when  you 
came  home,  papa,  it  was  all  so  exciting  I  forgot  about  it, 
and  I  have  only  thought  of  it  once  in  a  while,  and — well, 
I've  been  afraid  to  tell  you,"  she  added,  honestly. 

"  I  should  think  so  !  I  am  glad  you  have  the  grace  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Cynthia.  Has  no  apology  gone 
to  Aunt  Betsey  ?" 

"  No,  papa." 

"  It  is  outrageous.  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  go  there 
at  once.     Jack,  get  the  Pathfinder^ 

The  Pathfinder^  boon  of  New  England  households, 
was  brought,  and  Mr.  Franklin  studied  the  trains  for 
Way  borough. 

"  Hester,  you  had  better  come  too.  It  is  only  proper 
that  I  should  take  you  to  call  on  Aunt  Betsey.  Get 
ready  now,  and  we  will  go  for  the  day." 

The  Franklins  were  quite  accustomed  to  these  sudden 
decisions  on  the  part  of  their  father,  and  Mrs.  Franklin 
did  not  demur.  She  and  Cynthia  hurried  off  to  make 
ready,  and  the  carriage  was  ordered  to  take  them  to  the 
station. 

Cynthia's  preparations  did  not  take  long.  Her  sailor- 
hat  perched  sadly  to  one  side,  her  hair  tied  with  a  faded 
blue  ribbon,  one  of  the  cuffs  of  her  shirt-waist  fastened 
with  a  pin.     All  this  Edith  took  in  at  a  glance. 

"  Cynthia,  you  look  like  a  guy." 

"  I  guess  I  am  one." 

"  Don't  be  so  terribly  Yankee  as  to  say  *  guess.'  " 


73 


"  I  am  a  Yankee,  so  -vvhy  shouldn't  I  talk  like  one  ? 
Oh,  Edith,  what  do  I  care  about  ribbons  and  sleeve-but- 
tons when  I  have  to  go  apologize  to  Aunt  Betsey  ?" 

Edith  was  supplying  the  deficiencies  in  her  sister's 
toilet. 

"  It  is  too  bad.  Janet  ought  not  to  have  told.  But  it 
is  just  like  everything  else — all  Mrs.  Franklin's  fault." 

"  Edith,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Mamma  did  not  make 
Janet  tell ;  she  tried  to  stop  papa." 

"  I  know  she  api^eared  to.  But  if  papa  had  not  mar- 
ried again  would  this  ever  have  happened?  You  would 
not  have  heard  at  Mrs.  Parker's  that  he  was  going  to, 
Mrs.  Parker  wouldn't  have  said  '  I  told  you  so '  to  Aunt 
Betsey,  Aunt  Betsey  wouldn't  have  found  out  you  were 
there—" 

"  Edith,  what  a  goose  you  are  !  Any  other  time  you 
would  scold  me  for  having  done  it,  and  I  know  I  deserve 
it.  Now  you  are  putting  all  the  blame  on  mamma.  You 
are  terribly  unjust." 

"  There,  now,  you  have  turned  against  me,  all  because 
of  Mrs.  Franklin.     I  declare,  it  is  too  bad  !" 

"  Oh,  Edith,  I  do  wonder  when  you  will  find  out  what 
a  lovely  woman  mamma  is !  Of  course,  you  will  have  to 
some  day  ;  you  can't  help  it.  There,  they  are  calling,  and 
I  must  run  !     Good-bye." 

Hastily  kissing  her  sister,  Cynthia  ran  off. 

Neal  had  much  enjoyed  the  scene  at  the  breakfast-table. 
He  only  wished  that  he  had  been  present  when  Cynthia 
impersonated  her  aunt.  It  must  have  been  immense.  He 
wished  that  he  could  go  also  to  Wayborough,  but  he  was 
not  invited  to  join  the  party.  He  was  to  be  left  alone  for 
the  day  T>^ith  Edith,  for  Mr.  Franklin  had  decided  that 


74 


Jack  should  accompany  them,  to  thank  Aunt  Betsey  once 
more,  and  to  tell  her  himself  of  the  success  of  the  hatch. 

"  I'll  have  to  step  round  pretty  lively,  then,"  said  Jack. 
"  Those  birds  must  get  to  the  brooders  before  I  go.  Come 
along,  Neal.  It's  an  awful  bore  having  to  go  to  Way- 
borough  the  very  first  day.  You'll  have  to  look  after  the 
chicks,  and  don't  you  forget  it." 

The  chickens  safely  housed,  and  the  family  gone,  Neal 
prepared  to  enjoy  the  day.  He  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  see  something  of  Edith,  and  he  had  no  idea  of  working 
by  himself,  especially  as  there  was  no  absolute  necessity 
for  it. 

"The  day  is  too  hot  for  work,  anyhow,"  he  said  to 
himself. 


CHAPTER  Vn 

Neal  dropped  into  the  hammock  that  -was  hung  across 
the  corner  of  the  porch  and  waited  for  Edith  to  come. 
This  was  where  she  was  apt  to  sit  in  the  morning,  with 
her  work  or  a  book. 

Bob  lay  on  the  grass  near,  panting  with  the  heat.  He 
had  just  had  an  exciting  chase  after  a  bird  that  would 
perch  occasionally  on  a  low  bush,  then  flap  its  wings  tri- 
umphantly, and  fly  away  just  as  naughty  Bob  drew  near. 
He  thought  it  a  most  mistaken  arrangement  of  affairs  that 
birds  were  able  to  fly.  Now,  disgusted,  he  had  apparently 
given  up  the  game,  but  lay  with  one  eye  open  awaiting 
further  developments.  Presently  Edith  came  out,  followed 
by  the  children  with  their  toys.  She  had  her  work-basket, 
for  she  continued  to  take  care  of  their  clothes,  notwith- 
standinor  Mrs.  Franklin's  remonstrances. 

She  was  not  particularly  pleased  to  see  Neal  in  her  fa- 
vorite corner.  She  said  to  herself  that  she  would  have 
liked  to  have  one  day  at  least  free  from  the  Gordons. 
Edith  felt  cross  with  herself  and  every  one  else  this 
morning. 

Neal  rolled  out  of  the  hammock  when  he  saw  her,  and 
sprang  to  draw  up  her  chair  with  extreme  politeness. 

"  And  you  would  like  this  little  table  for  your  basket, 
wouldn't  you  ?"  he  said,  lifting  it  across  the  porch. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Edith,  mollified  in  spite  of  herself. 
Then  she  stiffened  again. 


"Where  are  Ben  and  Chester?"  slie  asked,  with  a  se- 
vere glance  at  Bob. 

"  I  saw  them  around  at  the  side  door." 

"  It  does  seem  a  shame  that  they  should  be  banished 
from  the  front  of  the  house.  For  years  they  have  had  the 
use  of  this  piazza;  and  now,  just  because  Bob  chooses  to 
monopolize  the  place,  they  feel  that  they  must  go." 

"Very  foolish  feelings,"  said  Neal,  who  had  returned 
to  his  hammock.  "  If  they  only  had  a  little  spirit  they 
would  soon  show  Bob  his  proper  place.  Why  don't  they 
give  him  a  good  shaking  when  he  nips  their  legs  ?" 

"  Because  they  are  larger  than  he,  and  because  they  are 
too  polite  to  do  it  in  their  own  home." 

Neal  laughed.  He  had  a  hearty,  contagious  laugh,  and 
Edith  could  not  refrain  from  joining  in  it. 

"They  set  you  a  very  good  example,"  he  said.  "  Come, 
now,  Edith,  confess  that  you  hate  the  Gordons,  from  Bob 
up." 

Edith  colored. 

"  How  silly  you  are !"  she  said,  with  supreme  dignity. 
"  Why  should  I  trouble  myself  to  dishke  you  ?" 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  There's  no  accounting  for  tastes.  Then, 
*  love  me,  love  my  dog.'  But  I  say,  Edith,  it  rather  pays 
to  make  you  mad.  You  grow  two  inches  visibly,  while  I 
shrink  in  proportion.  It  is  just  as  if  you  had  some  of  that 
cake  in  your  pocket  that  Alice  came  across  in  Wonder- 
land, don't  you  know  ?" 

"  Oh,  Neal,  tell  us  about  it !"  cried  Janet,  dropping  her 
dolls  and  flinging  herself  on  the  end  of  the  hammock.  "  I 
just  love  your  stories." 

"  It  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  your  big  sister,  Janet, 
my  child.     Bob  and  I  are  in  disgrace." 


"  Bob's  no  good,"  said  Willy  ;  *'  he  won't  play." 

"  His  coat  is  too  thick,"  remarked  Neal.  "  Bob  wishes 
it  were  the  fashion  to  wear  short  hair  in  summer.  I  say, 
Edith,  where  are  you  going?"  for  she  had  put  up  her 
work. 

"  I  think  I  shall  take  the  buggy  and  go  down  to  see 
Gertrude  Morgan.     I'm  tired  of  it  here." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Neal,  meekly. 

"Children,  you  can  stay  here,"  she  continued.  "I 
sha'n't  be  gone  more  than  an  hour  or  two." 

The  children  did  not  object.  They  counted  upon  hav- 
ing Neal  for  a  companion,  and  he  was  all-sufficient. 

But  when  the  old  buggy  rounded  the  corner,  and,  in- 
stead of  coming  up  to  the  house,  rattled  down  the  drive 
on  the  farther  side  of  the  "  heater-piece,"  Neal  sprang  out 
of  the  hammock  with  a  bounce  and  ran  across  the  grass. 
Bob  wanted  to  follow,  but  he  ordered  him  back.  He 
reached  the  fork  in  the  avenue  before  Edith  did. 

"  You're  pretty  cool,  to  go  off  this  way  when  I'm  going 
with  you." 

"  And  you  are  very  cool,  to  come  when  you  are  not 
invited,"  said  Edith,  wrathfully,  as  Neal  climbed  into  the 
carriage  without  waiting  for  her  to  stop. 

"  I  know.  It's  pleasant  to  be  cool  on  such  a  hot  day  as 
this." 

"AVhere  is  your  hat?" 

"  I'm  under  the  impression  it  is  on  the  hall  table ;  but 
no,  it  may  be  in  my  room.  On  second  thoughts,  it  is 
probably  in  the  cellar.     In  fact — " 

"  Oh,  hush !"  said  Edith,  laughing  involuntarily.  "  Where 
are  you  going  in  this  plight?" 

"To  see  Miss  Gertrude  Morgan." 


78 


"Indeed  you  are  not.  I  have  no  intention  of  driving 
to  Brenton  with  a  hatless  boy." 

"  '  "  Then  we'll  go  to  the  woods,"  says  this  pig ;'  "  and 
seizing  the  reins,  he  turned  abruptly,  as  they  reached  the 
gate  of  Oakleigh,  into  a  rocky,  hilly  lane  that  led  up 
through  the  woods. 

"  Now,  isn't  this  jolly  ?"  said  he,  leaning  back  in  his 
corner  of  the  buggy.     "  Just  the  place  for  a  hot  day." 

"  Oh,  I  must  go  back  !"  exclaimed  Edith,  suddenly.  "  It 
has  just  occurred  to  me  you  have  left  the  children." 

"They're  all  right.  They've  got  Bob,  and  we  sha'n't 
be  gone  long.  Great  Scott !  what  a  road  this  is.  I  don't 
believe  these  wheels  will  stay  on  long.  Why  don't  you 
use  the  surrey  ?" 

"  Because  the  surrey  is  not  mine,  and  this  is." 

"  So  that's  your  line  of  march,  is  it  ?  I  suspected  as 
much.  But  I  think  you  are  pretty  hard  on  Hessie.  She 
means  well  and  she's  not  a  bad  sort,  though  I  say  it  as 
shouldn't." 

Edith  made  no  answer. 

"Why  don't  you  try  and  make  the  best  of  things? 
I  always  do.  It  doesn't  really  pay  to  do  anything 
else." 

"  Very  good  philosophy.  But  if  you  have  come  out 
merely  to  lecture  me  on  my  duties  as  a  step-daughter  I 
think  we  may  as  well  turn  round  and  go  home  again." 

"  Oh,  come  off,  Edith  !  You're  a  nice  girl  in  the  main, 
and  I  think  it's  a  howling  shame  for  you  to  make  yourself 
so  mighty  offish  and  disagreeable  to  Hessie.  Why,  if  any 
one  ought  to  mind  it — her  marrying,  I  mean — I'm  the 
one.     It  makes  a  big  difference  to  me." 

"  Will  you  let  me  get  out  and  walk  home,  if  you  have 


not  the  grace  to  drive  me  there  ?     You  have  no  manner 
of  right  to  talk  to  me  this  way." 

"  I  know  I  haven't,  and  I'm  awfully  sorry  if  Pve  of- 
fended you.  I'm  afraid  I  have.  You'll  forgive  me, 
Edith,  please !  Don't  go  home.  I've  put  my  foot  in  it, 
like  the  great  awkward  fellow  I  am.  But  I  hate  to  see 
things  all  at  sixes  and  sevens  the  way  they  are,  and  I 
thought  perhaps  if  I  told  you  what  Hessie  really  is  you 
would  feel  differently.  If  you  only  knew  what  a  good 
sister  she's  been  to  me  !  You  know  our  father  and  moth- 
er died  when  I  was  a  little  duffer,  and  Hessie's  been  an 
Al  sister  ever  since.  Oar  grandmother  didn't  take 
much  stock  in  me  because  I  was  a  boy,  and  Hessie  al- 
ways stood  up  for  me.  It's  natural  I  should  take  her 
side.  I  hate  to  see  any  one  dislike  her.  But  I  see  it's 
no  ^use,  and  I'm  sorry  I  spoke.  But  say  you  will  excuse 
me,  Edith.  You  don't  like  it,  and  I  ought  not  to  have 
said  anything,  and  I  apologize." 

This  was  Neal  in  a  new  light.  Edith  was  astonished. 
She  had  supposed  that  he  was  only  a  rollicking  boy,  too 
lazy  to  amount  to  anything,  and  too  fond  of  a  joke  to 
think  of  the  more  serious  side  of  life. 

She  hesitated.  She  was  very  angry  with  him.  Of 
course  he  had  no  business  to  speak  to  her  on  this  sub- 
ject, but  he  was  evidently  sorry.  His  brown  eyes  looked 
very  repentant,  and  there  was  not  a  shadow  of  the  usual 
smile  in  them. 

"  Come  now,  Edith,"  he  urged,  "  do  it  up  handsomely, 
and  forgive  and  forget.     Give  me  your  hand  on  it." 

And  Edith  did  so,  and  with  difficulty  repressed  a  shriek 
at  the  hearty  squeeze  that  was  given  it.  And  just  as  they 
had  reached  this  point  in  their  conversation  there  was  a 


80 


sudden  crash.  Off  went  tlie  wlieel,  and  down  went  buggy, 
Edith,  and  Neal  in  a  heap  in  the  lane. 

Fortunately  the  horse  stood  still.  They  were  in  the 
depths  of  the  wood,  two  miles  from  any  house.  A  few 
startled  birds  fluttered  among  the  trees,  and  a  gray  squir- 
rel paused  in  his  day's  work  to  view  the  scene. 

Neal  and  Edith  crawled  out  from  the  debris. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  how-d'y'  do,"  said  Neal,  surveying  the 
wreck.  "  Edith,  I  greatly  fear  you'll  never  drive  in  that 
buggy  again." 

He  unhitched  the  horse,  and  then  removed  the  rem- 
nants of  the  vehicle  to  the  side  of  what  road  there  was, 
and  partially  hid  them  in  the  bushes. 

"  On  that  rock  we  split,"  said  he,  solemnly,  pointing  to 
a  big  stone  that  rose  high  above  a  rut.  "  If  I  hadn't  been 
so  busy  apologizing,  Edith,  we  wouldn't  have  gone  to  pieces. 
However,  perhaps  now  you  will  use  the  surrey." 

It  was  a  dangerous  speech,  but  Edith  tried  not  to  mind 
it,  and  she  helped  Neal  to  clear  away  the  stuff.  Then  they 
started  for  home,  Neal  leading  Robin,  the -old  horse,  while 
together  they  carried  the  cushions  and  a  lap-robe  that  had 
been  under  the  seat. 

Neal,  his  spirits  raised  by  the  accident,  was  in  his  gay- 
est humor,  and  the  quiet  air  rang  with  his  laughter  as  they 
trudged  home  in  the  heat.  Edith  quite  forgot  her  previous 
displeasure,  and  was  so  like  her  old  self  that  Neal  in  his 
turn  was  surprised,  and  thought  she  was  almost  as  nice 
as  Cynthia.  He  had  never  seen  her  in  this  mood  be- 
fore. 

When  Neal  abruptly  deserted  the  children  in  his  pur- 
suit of  Edith  they  were  at  first  too  much  amazed  to  do 


81 


anything  but  stand  perfectly  still  and  watch  him.  Then, 
as  the  back  of  the  buggy  disappeared  behind  the  trees, 
their  wrath  found  words. 

"  Mean  old  things  !"  exclaimed  Janet.  "  They've  gone 
oS  and  left  us,  an'  I  tickerlarly  wanted  Neal  to  tell  us  a 
story.     What  can  we  do  ?" 

Bob  joined  the  group,  his  tail  disconsolately  lowered. 
His  master  had  been  very  harsh  and  unfeeling  to  leave 
him  at  home,  he  thought.  The  trio  stood  in  a  row  on 
the  top  step  of  the  piazza.  Then,  with  a  feeble  and 
melancholy  wag  of  the  tail,  Bob  again  stretched  himself 
on  the  grass  and  prepared  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bar- 
gain. 

The  others  were  not  so  easily  appeased. 

"  We've  got  nuffin'  to  do,"  grumbled  Willy.  "  I  wish 
we  could  play  wif  de  chickens." 

"  We  can't  do  that,"  said  Janet,  decidedly.  "  We  can't 
touch  those  chickens  if  we  don't  want  a  turrible  spanking. 
You  know  what  papa  said." 

"  Maybe  mamma  wouldn't  let  him  spank  us." 

The  chickens  presented  a  powerful  fascination  for  Wih 
ly.  He  was  revolving  in  his  mind  the  question  as  to  wheth- 
er it  would  or  would  not  pay  to  be  spanked  for  the  sake 
of  having  some  fun  with  the  chicks. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Janet,  who  had  no  fancy  for  a  whipping. 
"  We've  got  to  do  somethin'  else." 

She  paused.  Slowly  a  gleam  of  mischief  came  into 
her  eyes,  and  a  smile  broke  over  her  round  and  rosy 
face. 

"  Willy,  we'll  play  barber." 

"  How  do  we  do  it  ?" 

"  I  speak  to  be  barber.    Don't  you  remember  when  papa 


took  you  to  have  your  hair  cut?  Well,  you  be  papa  an' 
you  bring  Bob,  an'  we'll  cut  his  hair.  Neal  said  it  was 
turrible  hot  for  him.  Neal  '11  be  glad  when  he  comes 
home  an'  finds  it  all  nicely  cut." 

*'  Course  he  will.     Only  I'd  like  to  be  barber,  Janet." 

"  No,  I  will.  It  is  my  game,  so  I  can  be  barber.  Get 
the  hat  and  be  papa." 

Willy  obeyed,  and  presently  returned  in  a  large  straw 
hat  that  had  once  been  his  father's  farm  hat,  and  was  now 
relegated  to  a  back  closet  for  use  in  the  children's  games. 
Janet,  meanwhile,  had  found  a  large  pair  of  scissors  in 
Edith's  basket,  unfortunately  left  on  the  porch,  with  which 
she  was  viciously  snipping  the  air. 

"  We'll  have  some  fun  even  if  they  did  go  off  an' 
leave  us,"  said  she.  *' Bring  along  Bob.  Here's  the 
chair." 

But  Bob  refused  to  be  brought.  He  lay  stretched  on 
his  side,  now  and  then  weakly  wagging  his  tail  in  re- 
sponse to  their  commands,  but  otherwise  not  stirring.  It 
was  too  hot  to  move  for  any  one  but  his  master. 

"  We'll  have  to  do  it  there.  We'll  pretend  he's  a  sick 
person  that  has  to  have  her  hair  cut  off.  They  do  some- 
times, you  know,"  said  Janet,  with  an  air  of  superior 
knowledge.  "  You  can  be  my  'sistant.  Here's  a  scissor 
for  you ;"  extracting  another  pair  from  the  too  convenient 
basket. 

In  a  moment  they  were  botb  hard  at  work.  Snippity, 
snip,  clip,  clip,  went  the  two  pairs  of  scissors.  Bob's 
beautiful  long  black  hair,  the  pride  of  his  master's  heart 
and  the  means  of  securing  a  prize  at  the  last  dog- show, 
lay  in  a  heap  on  the  grass. 

"  That's  nice,"  said  Janet,  surveying  the  result  with 


83 


satisfaction.  "  He  must  feel  lovely  and  cool.  Now  let's 
do  tlie  other  side." 

But  that  was  not  so  easy.  Bob  still  refused  to  stir.  They 
pulled  and  punched  and  pushed,  but  he  would  not  turn  over. 

"Well,  we'll  just  have  to  leave  it  an'  do  it'nother  time," 
said  Janet  at  last,  with  a  parting  clip  at  ear  and  tail.  "  Let's 
go  down  an'  play  in  the  brook." 

And  flinging  the  scissors  on  the  grass,  these  two  young 
persons  deserted  the  scene  of  their  labors,  and  were  soon 
building  a  fine  dam  across  the  brook  in  the  pasture.  There 
they  remained  until  the  sound  of  the  bell  on  the  carriage- 
house,  rung  to  summon  to  dinner  the  men  at  work  in  the 
distant  fields,  warned  them  that  it  was  twelve  o'clock  and 
almost  time  to  go  in  themselves. 

Edith  and  Neal  plodded  slowly  homeward.  It  was  very 
warm,  for  though  it  was  not  sunny  in  the  woods  the  trees 
shut  off  the  air.  They  turned  in  from  the  lane  and  walked 
up  the  avenue,  Robin's  hoofs  falling  regularly  on  the  gravel 
with  a  hot,  thumping  sound. 

"  Jiminy,  this  is  a  scorcher  1"  said  Neal,  wiping  his  fore- 
head. *'  Here  comes  Bob.  He  doesn't  seem  to  mind  the 
weather.  No,  it  isn't  Bob,  either.  What  dog  is  it  ?  Great 
Scott,  Edith,  it  is  Bob  !     What  has  happened  to  him  ?" 

He  dropped  the  reins,  and  Robin  trudged  off  alone  to 
his  stall. 

"  Why,  Neal,  I  never  saw  such  a  sight !"  cried  Edith. 

Bob,  bounding  merrily  over  the  grass,  overjoyed  at  see- 
ing his  master  return,  was  quite  unconscious  of  the  effect 
he  produced.  On  one  side  he  was  the  same  beautiful, 
glossy-coated  creature  he  had  ever  been ;  on  the  other, 
through  stray,  uneven  bunches  of  hair  gleamed  touches  of 


84 


whitish  skin.  His  ears,  which  had  measured  a  proud  eigh- 
teen inches  from  tip  to  tip,  flapped  on  either  side  in  un- 
graceful scantness  ;  and  liis  tail,  from  which  so  short  a 
time  before  had  waved  a  beautiful  raven  plume,  now 
wagged  in  uncompromising  stubbiness. 

"  Bob,  Bob,  what  has  happened  to  you  ?  You  look  as  if 
you  had  been  in  a  fire  !" 

Edith,  with  an  awful  foreboding  in  her  heart,  hurried 
towards  the  house.  Yes,  her  fears  were  realized !  Two 
pairs  of  scissors  and  a  mass  of  black  hair  told  the  tale. 
She  sank  down  on  the  steps  and  covered  her  face. 

"  The  children  have  done  it,"  she  murmured ;  "  oh,  Neal, 


we  ought  never  to  have  left  them  !" 

Neal  stood  there  perfectly  silent.  He  had  grown  very 
white,  and  his  eyes  looked  dangerously  dark. 

"Confound  those  children!"  he  said  at  last, between  set 
teeth ;  "  you  had  better  keep  them  out  of  my  way  for  a 
time,  Edith.  I'd  just  like  to  murder  them,  the  way  I  feel 
now." 

"  Oh,  Neal,  I  am  so  sorry  !  I  can't  tell  you  how  dread- 
fully I  feel.  But  we  oughtn't  to  have  both  gone.  You 
see,  I  didn't  know  you  were  coming  too." 

"  And  I  didn't  know  I  was  expected  to  act  as  child's 
nurse,"  said  Neal,  angrily.  "  The  dog  is  done  for,  as  far  as 
shows  are  concerned.  His  coat  will  never  be  the  same 
again  ;  it  ruins  it  to  cut  it."     He  stopped  abruptly. 

"  I  guess  I  had  better  get  out  of  the  way,"  he  said,  pres- 
ently.    "  I  can't  answer  for  my  temper.     Come,  Bob." 

And  he  walked  down  across  the  grass  and  went  off  into 
the  woods. 

Edith,  left  alone,  began  to  cry.  She  would  not  have 
had  this  happen  for  the  world.     Again  she  said  to  herself, 


85 


why  had  the  Gordons  ever  come  there  to  disturb  their 
peace  of  mind  in  so  many  ways?  And  where  were  the 
children  ?     They  should  be  severely  punished. 

She  looked  for  them  all  over  the  house,  but,  of  course, 
they  were  not  to  be  found.  After  a  long  time  she  saw 
them  coming  slowly  homeward.  They  were  wet  and  be- 
draggled, for  the  stones  had  been  as  obdurate  as  Bob  and 
refused  to  move.  Willy  had  tumbled  into  the  brook, 
and  Janet  had  followed,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  help  him 
out. 

And  now  they  were  met  by  an  irate  sister  who,  seizing 
them  roughly,  dragged  them  up-stairs. 

"  You  shall  go  straight  to  bed  and  stay  there !  You 
have  ruined  Neal's  dog,  and  he'll  never  get  over  it.  You 
are  bad,  naughty  children  !" 

"  I  think  you're  silly,  Edith  !"  screamed  Janet.  "  We 
didn't  hurt  him,  and  we  only  cooled  him  off.  You're 
mean  to  make  us  go  to  bed  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  an' 
you'd  orter  not  drag  us  this  way.     Mamma  wouldn't." 

"  I  don't  care  what  your  mamma  would  do  ;  it's  what  I 
do." 

Edith  did  not  realize  that  a  few  words  spoken  calmly 
but  sternly  to  Janet  and  Willy  would  have  more  lasting 
effect  than  this  summary  mode  of  punishment.  The  truth 
was,  she  was  too  angry  to  trust  her  tongue  at  all,  and 
this  reference  to  Mrs.  Franklin  annoyed  her.  Everything 
seemed  against  her,  and  the  hot  weather  made  things 
worse. 

She  ate  her  dinner  in  solitude,  and  then,  when  the  after- 
noon had  worn  on  for  an  hour  or  two,  she  at  last  saw 
Neal  coming  across  the  fields. 

Edith  went  to  meet  him. 


86 


"  You  want  sometliing  to  eat,"  she  said.  "  Come  in 
and  I'll  find  you  something.     Neal,  I  am  so  sorry." 

"Oh,  don't  say  anything.  What's  done  can't  be  un- 
done. Lend  me  your  shears  after  dinner  and  I'll  finish 
things  up  with  a  flourish.  I  can  get  him  into  better  shape 
than  he  is.  He  looks  like  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  just 
now.  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  hunter,  so  I  don't  mind  accept- 
ing your  ofier  of  a  bite." 

Edith  went  off  to  find  something,  and  as  she  prepared 
a  dainty  meal  for  the  boy  she  thought  to  herself  that  he 
set  her  a  good  example.  She  knew  what  pride  he  had 
taken  in  Bob's  appearance,  and  she  knew  how  angry  he 
had  been  at  first.     It  must  have  been  a  hard  battle  for  him. 

And  it  was.  Edith  was  far  from  realizing  what  a  tem- 
per Neal  had.  He  had  felt  that  morning  that  his  only 
safety  lay  in  flight,  and  he  had  tramped  many  miles 
through  the  woods  in  the  endeavor  to  overcome  his  anger. 

After  luncheon  he  took  the  scissors  and  set  to  work 
upon  Bob's  other  side.  He  could  not  repress  a  groan  of 
dismay  once  or  twice. 

"  If  they  had  only  done  it  decently  !"  he  said.  "  In 
some  places  it  looks  as  if  it  had  been  torn  out  by  the 
roots,  they've  cropped  it  so  close,  and  here  again  are  these 
long  pieces.  Well,  well,  Bobby,  my  boy,  I  fancy  we  were 
too  vain  of  our  appearance.     Here  goes  1" 

In  a  short  time  Bob  had  the  appearance  of  a  closely 
shaven  French  poodle. 

Edith  watched  the  process  for  a  few  minutes,  but  pres- 
ently went  to  her  room. 

'<  I  shall  be  held  accountable  for  this  too,  I  suppose," 
she  said  to  herself.     "  Oh,  why  did  those  Gordons  ever 

pomp.  1" 


CHAPTER  Vm 

Miss  Betsey  Trinkett  had  risen  betimes  this  Friday- 
morning.  She  had  planned  to  do  some  work  in  her  gar- 
den, and,  besides.  Miss  Betsey  was  always  an  early  riser. 

Ebenezer,  the  "  hired  man,"  when  he  came  back  from 
driving  the  cows  to  pasture,  found  her  hard  at  work  in  her 
huge  sunbonnet  and  garden  gloves,  pruning  the  box  that 
formed  the  border  of  the  old-fashioned  garden. 

Here  bloomed  together  in  delicious  profusion  roses, 
white,  red,  and  pink,  sweet-william,  dahlias,  peonies, 
mignonette,  and  heart's-ease,  while  the  labyrinth  which 
wound  in  and  out  among  them  was  the  pride  of  Miss 
Betsey's  heart. 

After  a  time  she  straightened  herself  and  stood  gazing 
at  the  view,  her  quaint  little  figure,  in  its  old-time,  gay- 
colored  gown,  looking  not  unlike  the  flowers  among 
which  it  stood. 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know !"  she  said,  aloud,  her  hand 
raised  to  shield  her  eyes.  "  Any  one  who  says  his  view  is 
better  than  mine  must  be  just  about  daft.  Land  sakes ! 
I'd  just  about  die  if  I  didn't  get  that  sweep  of  the  Merri- 
mac  and  those  mountings  beyond !"  And  then,  satisfied, 
she  returned  to  her  weeding. 

Miss  Betsey's  house,  in  which  she  had  been  born  and 
her  father  also,  stood  on  the  side  of  a  hill.  Behind  was  a 
steep  pasture,  full  of  rocks  and  stubby  bushes.  In  front, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  the  ground  sloped  abruptly 


to  the  village.  Even  the  old  white  meeting-house,  built 
on  a  hill  though  it  was,  stood  lower  than  the  Trinkett 
farm.  Beyond  the  village  flowed  the  beautiful  Merrimac. 
A  broad  stretch  of  meadow  land  and  cultivated  fields  rest- 
ed the  eye  with  their  peaceful  greens,  and  far  away  was 
the  dim  outline  of  the  hills. 

"  Silas  don't  get  a  touch  of  the  river,"  continued  Miss 
Betsey,  "  and  as  for  the  medders,  they're  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  He  thinks  because  he  can  see  the  Common  and  the 
Soldiers'  Monument  his  view  's  better  than  mine  !  He  ex- 
pects me  to  give  up  the  Merrimac  for  the  Soldiers'  Monu- 
ment I     Sakes  alive  1" 

She  worked  steadily  for  some  time  until  the  click  of  the 
gate  attracted  her  attention. 

"I  want  to  know  1"  she  exclaimed,  laying  down  her  tools 
and  drawing  off  her  old  gloves;  "if  here  ain't  Nephew 
John  and  Jackie  and  that  naughty  Cynthy.  Well,  well ! 
And  this  must  be  the  bride."  And  she  hurried  down  the 
path  to  meet  them. 

Cynthia  came  shyly  forward  after  the  introduction  of 
her  step-mother  and  the  greetings  were  over.  All  the  way 
in  the  train  she  had  been  meditating  what  she  should  say. 
"With  Jack's  help  she  had  composed  a  little  speech.  His 
help  had  consisted  in  acting  as  audience,  for  Cynthia  was 
seldom  at  a  loss  for  words.  But  when  the  tinae  came  the 
speecb  deserted  her,  and  all  she  could  think  of  doing  was 
to  put  her  arms  around  Aunt  Betsey's  neck,  and,  looking 
into  the  depths  of  the  big  sun-bonnet,  say,  softly : 

"  Aunt  Betsey,  I'm  so  sorry  !    Will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"  Forgive  you,  child !"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  her  re- 
sentment melting  at  sight  of  her  favorite  niece.  "  I  want  to 
know !     Did  you  suppose  I'd  remembered  to  be  angry  all 


lis 


I"- -I:-; 


"'I    MANT    TO   know!'    SHE    EXCLAIMED,  DRAWING    OFF    HER    OLD    GLOVES  ' 


this  time  ?  La,  Cynthy,  -when  you're  as  old  as  I  am  you'll 
have  learced  to  take  a  little  joke.  And  don't  you  suppose 
I'm  real  pleased  to  have  you  look  so  much  like  me  ?  If 
Mrs.  Parker  couldn't  tell  us  apart  there  must  be  some  re- 
semblance." 

"  Nor  Jack  either,"  put  in  Cynthia,  eagerly,  with  a  light- 
ened heart. 

"  I  think  you  are  too  good  to  her.  Aunt  Betsey,"  said 
Mr.  Franklin,  as  they  walked  towards  the  house.  "I 
brought  her  up  here  to-day  for  the  sole  purpose  of  apolo- 
gizing." 

"  Do  tell  !  And  I  nearly  disremembered  it  entirely  ! 
But  I'm  real  glad  to  see  you  and  my  new  niece.  Come 
right  into  the  best  parlor." 

She  opened  the  door  and,  with  reverent  step,  ushered 
them  into  the  carefully  kept  "  best  parlor."  An  immacu- 
late carpet,  ever  shielded  from  the  light  of  day,  covered 
the  floor,  and  a  horse -hair  sofa  and  a  few  chairs  of  the 
same  inhospitable  material  stood  at  regular  intervals  of 
distance  from  one  another. 

A  pair  of  tall  vases  and  some  sea-shells  decked  the 
mantel-piece.  During  their  childhood  it  had  been  a  rare 
treat  to  Jack  and  Cynthia  to  hold  these  shells  to  their  eare 
and  listen  to  the  "  roar  of  the  ocean  "  within.  On  a  table 
between  the  windows  were  some  wax-flowers  under  a  glass, 
and  on  the  marble-topped  centre-table  were  a  few  books 
placed  together  in  neat  little  piles. 

Mrs.  Franklin  was  given  the  place  of  honor,  the  large 
arm-chair.  The  chair  being  a  high  one  and  she  being  a 
rather  small  woman,  her  feet  barely  touched  the  floor,  and 
she  sat  in  constant  terror  lest  she  should  slide  ignomin- 
iously  to  the  ground. 


90 


It  was  so  dark  wlien  they  entered  the  room  that  Mr. 
Franklin  stumbled  over  a  worsted -work  footstool  which 
stood  in  a  prominent  place,  but  Miss  Trinkett  opened  the 
blinds  a  crack,  and  two  bars  of  blazing  July  sunshine  fell 
across  the  carpet.  Then  she  sat  down  to  entertain  her 
guests,  but  her  mind  wandered.  The  Franklins  all  talked, 
but  Miss  Betsey  was  unusually  silent.  "  I  want  to  know  !" 
and  "  Do  tell !"  came  at  random.  Finally  she  said,  with  a 
hasty  glance  at  the  sunlight : 

"  I  wonder  now  if  you'd  mind  coming  into  my  sitting- 
room  ?  I'd  be  real  pleased  to  have  you,  and  maybe  we'd 
find  it  cooler." 

They  all  jumped  to  their  feet  with  alacrity.  Miss  Betsey 
closed  her  blinds  again  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  in  the 
freer  atmosphere  of  the  sitting-room,  secure  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  her  best-parlor  carpet  was  no  longer  fading,  she 
found  her  tongue. 

"  I  was  coming  to  see  you,  niece,  just  as  soon  as  I  could 
see  my  way  to  it.  Marthy,  my  hired  girl,  has  been  off  for 
a  spell,  and  that's  kept  me  busy.  I'd  have  written,  but  I'm 
a  poor  hand  at  writing.  Silas  he  says  he  wonders  the  let- 
ters I  write  ever  get  there,  but  then  he's  one  of  the  doubting 
kind,  Silas  is.  I've  great  faith  in  government.  I  think 
as  long  as  they  undertake  to  carry  letters  about  at  all, 
they've  got  sense  enough  to  carry  'em  safe,  even  if  I  do 
disremember  part  of  the  direction  sometimes.  And  it's 
wonderful,  as  I've  said  many  a  time  before,  what  you  can 
send  through  the  mails  nowadays.  But  now  tell  me  about 
those  poor  little  orphans  in  the  poultry-yard." 

The  success  of  the  last  hatch  was  described  to  her ;  in 
fact,  all  the  news  of  Brenton  was  asked  for  and  received, 
and  in  turn  bits  of  Wayborough  gossip  were  told  to  the 


91 


attentive  Mrs.  Franklin,  while  Silas's  latest  sayings  were 
repeated  and  commented  upon. 

When  Jack  and  Cynthia  had  gone  out-doors,  Miss  Bet- 
sey drew  her  chair  a  little  closer  to  that  of  Mrs.  Franklin. 

"  My  dear — Hester,  I  think,  your  name  is,  and  Hester  it 
will  be  ray  pleasure  to  call  you — my  dear  Hester,  I  want 
to  tell  you  first  and  foremost  that  Fm  real  pleased  you 
should  come  and  be  a  mother  to  those  children  of  Nephew 
John's.  They  needed  you,  they  needed  you  badly.  And 
now  Fm  going  to  treat  you  as  one  of  the  family,  and  talk 
over  a  little  matter  with  you  and  John. 

"You've  probably  heard  of  Silas  Green.  He's  been 
courting  me  these  forty  years,  and  now  he's  got  it  into  his 
head  that  he  can't  be  climbing  this  hill  any  more  of  a  Sun- 
day night.  He  w^ants  me  to  fix  the  day  !  I  declare,  it 
kind  of  takes  the  stiffening  right  out  of  me  to  think  of 
fixing  the  day  after  all  these  years,  and  I  still  hold  out,  as 
I  can't  give  up  ray  view  of  the  river." 

"  AVhat  are  you  going  to  do  about  it.  Aunt  Betsey  ?" 

"  That's  just  it,  John.  Well,  Fm  going  to  hold  out  a 
little  longer,  and  I  think — in  fact,  Fm  pretty  sure — that  Silas 
is  weakening.  You  see,  it's  kind  of  lonesome  for  him 
down  there,  now  his  sister's  dead  that  kept  house  for  him, 
and  it  is  depressing  to  have  nothing  much  to  look  at  but 
the  Common  and  the  Soldiers'  Monument.  Yes,  I  think 
he's  weakening,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  were  to  find 
him  here  next  time  you  come.  But  Fll  let  you  know  in 
time  to  come  to  the  wedding,  you  may  be  sure  of  that. 
But  there's  something  else  I  want  to  speak  about." 

Here  Miss  Betsey  paused.  She  folded  her  hands  anew 
in  her  lap,  and,  rocking  briskly,  waited  for  some  one  to 
speak.    The  clock  on  the  chimney-shelf  ticked  comfortably, 


92 


and  Miss  Trinkett's  canary  chirped  and  hopped  about  in 
its  cage  at  the  window.  Mrs.  Franklin  looked  at  her  hus- 
band. 

"  And  what  is  that,  Aunt  Betsey  ?"  said  he.  "  Somehow 
you  have  so  taken  my  breath  away  by  hinting  that  you 
are  going  to  make  Mr.  Silas  Green  happy,  after  all  these 
years,  that  I  can't  take  in  anything  else." 

"  Ah  now,  my  dear  boy,  don't  jump  too  quickly  at  a 
conclusion.  Things  may  not  be  any  nearer  a  settling  now 
than  they  were  forty  years  ago.  It's  all  a  question  of 
view,  and  men  are  terribly  set  in  their  ways.  However,  to 
continue :  I  want  to  make  each  of  the  children  a  present. 
I  feel  that  I'm  getting  on  in  life — though  I'm  not  so  very 
old  either,  but,  still,  no  one  knows  what  may  happen — and 
I'd  rather  do  things  up  before  I  die  than  have  it  all  a-going 
on  after  I'm  laid  away.  I  never  did  think  much  of  wills, 
anyhow.  So  I'm  going  to  send  'em  each  a  present  from 
time  to  time  as  I  feel  inclined." 

"  Nonsense,  Aunt  Betsey  !"  said  Mr.  Franklin.  "  You 
are  not  going  to  die  for  many  a  year  yet,  and  you  give  the 
children  enough.     Keep  your  money — " 

"  Now  you  needn't  say  a  word,  John.  My  mind's  made 
up,  and  it  takes  a  deal  to  make  me  change  it — it's  in  the 
Trinkett  blood.  And  then  I  like  to  get  the  letters  the 
children  write  to  thank  me.  I  must  say  I'm  powerful 
fond  of  their  letters,  'specially  Cynthy's.  She  does  write 
a  beautiful  letter.  I'll  send  'em  each  in  turn,  beginning 
with  Edith  and  ending  up  with  Willy.  Of  course,  they 
can  do  what  they  like  with  the  money,  but  it  would  be 
my  advice  to  put  it  in  the  savings-bank.  It's  wonderful 
how  money  does  roll  up  in  an  institution  of  that  kind." 

Miss  Betsey  could  not  be  turned  from  her  purpose,  so 


her  nephew  was  forced  to  content  himself  with  begging 
her,  if  she  sent  money  through  the  mails,  to  address  it 
carefully. 

"  One  would  think,  nephew,  from  the  way  you  talk  that 
I  didn't  know  how  to  write,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  some 
asperity. 

Jack  and  Cynthia  in  the  meantime  Avere  exploring  the 
farm.  It  was  a  never-failing  source  of  pleasure  to  them, 
accustomed  to  farm  life  though  they  were. 

"This  is  a  really  true  farm,"  said  Cynthia;  "not  a 
make-believe,  like  ours,  with  a  hired  farmer  to  do  it  all. 
And  Aunt  Betsey's  garden  is  a  thousand  times  nicer  than 
ours,  and  her  hens  are  all  so  big  and  strong-looking." 

"That's  only  because  you've  been  looking  so  much  at 
the  '  little  orphans.'  By-the-way,  1  wonder  how  they're 
getting  on.  I  do  wish  I  hadn't  had  to  leave  home  to-day. 
I  wonder  if  Gordon  will  attend  to  things.  Queer  kind  of 
a  duffer,  isn't  he,  Cyntli  ?" 

"Yes,  but  I  like  him.  He's  awfully  lazy  and  all  that, 
but  I  think  I'd  trust  him." 

"  Oh,  I'd  trust  him  far  enough,  except  where  hard  work's 
concerned.  In  that  line  I  think  I'd  rather  trust  myself. 
But  I  wish  it  was  time  to  go  home." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Cynthia,  thoughtfully.  "  I  have  a 
feeling  that  something  is  going  on  there  and  we  are 
missing  it.  Aunt  Betsey's  isn't  as  much  fun  as  usual, 
though  she  was  awfully  good  to  forgive  me  so  easily. 
And  you  have  been  frightening  me  about  it  all  the  way, 
Jack." 

At  last  the  day  wore  on,  and  amid  cordial  good-byes 
from  Miss  Betsey,  her  relatives  took  leave. 

"  I'll  send  you   something  for  those  little  orphans  at 


94 


Christmas-time,  Jackie,"  she  called  after  them,  "though 
this  being  only  July  I  hope  to  see  you  before  then." 

AVhen  the  party  reached  home  they  found  Bob  shaven 
and  shorn,  Neal  in  his  most  careless  and  teasing  frame  of 
mind,  Edith  depressed  and  silent,  and  the  children  in  dis- 
grace. 

"  I  knew  something  was  happening  while  we  were 
away,"  whispered  Cynthia  to  Jack. 

"If  only  we  hadn't  missed  it,"  returned  he.  "Smash- 
ing the  buggy  and  shaving  Bob,  all  in  one  day  !  It's  a 
regular  shame  that  we  weren't  on  hand." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  were  neglecting  things  some- 
what to-day,  Edith,"  said  her  father,  when  he  heard  the 
story. 

There,  it  had  come !  Of  course  she  was  to  be  censured 
as  she  had  expected. 

"  I  didn't  know  I  was  to  be  tied  hand  and  foot  and  look 
after  the  children  every  minute  of  the  day,"  she  answered, 
crossly, "  and  it  was  not  my  fault  that  we  went  to  the 
woods  and  broke  the  buggy." 

"  I  don't  care  in  the  least  about  the  buggy,  but  about 
Neal's  dog." 

This  was  too  much.  Edith  felt  badly  herself  about  the 
dog,  but  surely  she  was  not  responsible.  She  had  not 
been  the  means  of  bringing  him  to  Oakleigh,  she  said 
to  herself.  She  was  about  to  reply,  when  Mrs.  Franklin 
interposed  and  diverted  her  husband's  mind  from  the  sub- 
ject.    This  still  further  annoyed  Edith. 

Why  should  Mrs.  Franklin  feel  called  upon  to  interfere 
between  her  and  her  father  ?  And  she  encouraged  herself 
to  dislike  more  tban  ever  the  "  intruders  "  at  Oakleigh. 

The  summer  went  by.     More  chickens  were  hatched. 


95 


until  they  nnmbered  four  hundred,  and  then  "  Franklin  & 
Gordon  "  concluded  that  they  would  not  fill  the  machine 
again  this  season.  The  stock  must  be  carefully  tended 
during  the  winter,  and  Jack  would  have  his  hands  full, 
though  one  of  the  men  would  help  him  if  necessary. 

Jack  was  to  go  to  Boston  to  school  this  winter.  Neal 
was  going  back  to  boarding-school ;  it  was  his  last  year, 
and  next  autumn  he  hoped  to  begin  college  life. 

One  fine  day  towards  the  end  of  the  summer  Cynthia 
and  Neal  walked  out  over  the  pasture  to  the  "  far  mead- 
ow," and  sat  down  in  the  shade  of  a  huge  hay-stack.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  hum  of  fall  insects,  and  grasshoppers 
alighted  here,  there,  and  everywhere  about  them.  Neal 
tried  in  vain  to  catch  one  with  his  hat.  Then  he  tossed 
it  to  one  side,  and  clasping  his  hands  behind  his  head, 
leaned  back  against  the  hay  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  Cynthia.  "  I  should 
think  you  had  the  weight  of  the  world  on  your  shoulders." 

"  And  so  I  have.  I've  a  good  mind  to  trot  out  the 
whole  story  to  you,  Cynth.  I  wonder  if  it  would  do  any 
good." 

"Of  course  it  would,"  replied  Cynthia,  promptly. 
"  There  is  nothing  like  talking  a  thing  over,  and,  besides, 
I've  wanted  dreadfully  to  know  what  has  been  the  matter 
with  you." 

"  How  did  you  know  anything  was  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  you  growing  glummer  and  glummer.  You 
haven't  been  nearly  as  jolly  lately.  And  when  you  got 
that  letter  this  morning  you  looked  as  if  you  would  like 
to  punch  somebody." 

"You  do  take  in  a  lot!  I  never  supposed  anybody 
would  notice.     I  wonder  if  Ilessie  did." 


96 


"  I  saw  her  looking  at  you." 

"  I  wish  she'd  look  to  some  purpose,  and  hand  out  what 
I  want.  She's  so  taken  up  with  you  Franklins  nowa- 
days." 

"  What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Money,  of  course." 

"  Why,  Neal,  mamma  gave  you  a  lot  the  other  day  !" 

"  Oh,  that  was  a  mere  drop  in  the  bucket.  Yes,  I  really 
think  I'll  have  to  tell  you  what  a  fix  I'm  in.  Perhaps 
you'll  see  some  way  out  of  it." 

"  Do,"  said  Cynthia,  sympathetically ;  "I  am  sure  I 
will." 

''  Well,  it's  just  this.  I  owe  a  lot  of  money  to  a  fellow 
that  goes  to  St.  Asaph's,  and  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this 
morning  asking  me  to  fork  out  at  once,  or  he  would  write 
to  my  guardians  or  speak  to  the  trustees  at  th©  school.  It's 
a  nasty  thing  to  do,  anyhow.  I  don't  think  the  fellow  is 
a  gentleman." 

"  Then  why  did  you  ever  have  anything  to  do  with 
him  ?" 

"  That's  just  like  a  girl !     I'm  sorry  I  told  you." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that !  Indeed,  it  only  just  struck  me 
that  people  who  are  not  gentlemen  are  so  horrid.  Please 
go  on,  Neal,  and  tell  me  the  rest." 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell  except  that  I  owe  him  a  hun- 
dred dollars." 

"  One  hundred  dollars  !  Neal !"  To  Cynthia  this  seemed 
a  fortune.     "Why,  how  did  you  ever  spend  it  all?" 

"  Spend  it !  Easily  enough.  Suppers  once  in  a  while, 
ginger-pop,  candy,  cigarettes." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  smoked." 

"  Neither  I  do.     I  just  do  it  occasionally  to  show  I'm 


97 


up  to  it.  But  it's  no  go  if  you're  training,  and  Pm  train- 
ing most  of  the  time.  But  you  have  to  keep  cigarettes 
on  hand  for  the  fellows." 

"  But,  Neal,  you  told  me  once  how  large  your  allowance 
is,  and  I  don't  see  how  you  ever  in  the  world  managed  to 
spend  so  much  more." 

"  Easily  enough,  as  I  said  before.  You  see,  I  have  the 
name  of  being  a  rich  fellow,  and  I  have  to  live  up  to  it, 
which  makes  it  hard.  I  have  to  live  up  to  it,  when,  after 
all,  I'm  practically  dependent  on  Hessie.  I  haven't  a  cent 
of  my  own  until  I'm  twenty-five.  This  fellow,  Bronson, 
offered  to  lend  me  a  fiver  one  day,  aud  I  got  into  the  habit 
of  askino^  him.  I  didn't  mean  to  let  it  run  on  so  lonef. 
He's  a  queer  lot — awfully  smooth  on  the  outside,  and  inside 
hard  as  nails.  We  were  good  friends  at  first ;  then  he  did 
something  I  didn't  like  and  I  cut  him,  but  he  didn't  seem 
to  mind  it,  and  afterwards  when  he  offered  me  the  fiver  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  take  it.  AVhat  a  mean  will  that 
■svas  anyhow  of  grandmother's." 

Neal  moodily  tugged  at  a  wisp  of  straw  which  he  held 
in  his  teeth,  and  looked  across  the  meadow.  A  herd  of 
cows  came  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  for  a 
drink,  and  Bob  barked  at  them  loudly,  running  as  near  to 
them  as  he  dared. 

For  a  time  Cynthia  did  not  speak.     Then  she  said : 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  ask  mamma  ?" 

"  I  suppose  I'll  have  to.  I  wouldn't  mind  a  bit  if  she 
were  not  married,  but  I  suppose  your  father  will  have  to 
know  about  it." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Cynthia,  sagely,  "  mamma  would  have 
just  given  it  to  you  without  saying  anything,  while  papa 
will  ask  questions." 


98 


*'  That's  just  about  the  size  of  it.  And  he  will  not  only 
ask  the  questions,  but  he  won't  like  the  answers.  I  think 
I  won't  tackle  them  for  a  hundred  all  at  once.  I'll  put  it 
at  fifty,  and  try  to  get  Bronson  to  wait  for  the  rest.  I 
suppose  I'll  get  some  tips  at  Christmas-time." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  ever  so  much  better,  Neal,  to  tell 
the  whole  truth.  It  will  save  ever  so  much  trouble  in  the 
end." 

"  But  it  won't  save  trouble  now,  and  I  hate  a  fuss.  The 
fifty  business  will  be  bad  enough.  I  like  to  take  things 
quietly." 

"That's  just  it,  Neal.  Do  take  my  advice,  and  tell 
mamma  the  whole  thing." 

"That's  the  worst  of  telling  a  girl  anything.  They  al- 
ways want  to  give  advice.  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  a 
woman  from  her  earliest  years  loves  to  advise." 

"Much  you  know  about  it,"  said  Cynthia;  "and  you 
needn't  have  told  me  about  your  scrape  if  you  didn't  want 
me  to  say  anything." 

"  Well,  I've  told  you  now,  and  you  must  give  me  your 
word  of  honor  that  you  will  never  give  me  away.  Now 
promise,  Cynthia." 

"  Of  course  I'll  promise,  Neal.  I  wouldn't  tell  it  for 
the  world  if  you  don't  want  me  to.  But  oh,  I  wish  you 
would  tell  the  whole  thing  yourself !" 

But  Neal  was  obdurate  ;  and  when  he  found  how  his 
brother-in-law  received  his  demand  for  fifty  dollars  he 
thought  he  had  acted  wisely. 

"  Of  course  it  is  not  really  my  affair,"  said  Mr.  Frank- 
lin, "  except  that  I  am  your  sister's  husband  and  have  a 
right  to  advise  her.  The  money  is  hers  to  do  with  it 
what  she  likes,  and   she  can  spend  it  all  on  you  if  she 


99 


wishes.  But  I  think  fifty  dollars  is  a  good  deal  for  a 
school-boy,  with  the  allowance  that  you  have,  to  owe.  If 
you  were  my  boy  I  should  look  into  the  matter  pretty 
carefully,  you  may  be  sure.  However,  I  am  neither  your 
father  nor  your  guardian.  But  it  is  a  bad  precedent.  If 
you  spend  money  in  this  way  at  school,  what  will  you 
do  in  college  ?" 

Hester  expostulated  with  her  brother,  but  wrote  a  check 
and  gave  it  to  him.  Neal  was  almost  sorry  then  that  he 
had  not  placed  the  sum  at  one  hundred.  It  would  have 
been  about  as  easy,  perhaps. 

He  sent  the  check  to  Bronson,  assuring  him  that  he 
would  pay  him  the  balance  before  long.  This  done,  Neal 
became  as  gay  and  debonair  as  ever.  Cynthia,  knowing 
the  facts,  wondered  that  he  could  so  completely  forget  the 
burden  of  debt  that  was  still  resting  upon  him.  She 
thought  that  he  must  have  discovered  some  other  way  of 
settling  the  matter. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  last  excitement  of  the  summer  before  school  began 
was  a  river  picnic,  given  by  Gertrude  Morgan.  A  note 
was  brought  to  Edith  one  afternoon  which  ran  thus  : 

"  My  DEAREST  Edith, — Will  you,  Cynthia,  Jack,  and 
Neal  Gordon  join  us  on  the  river  to-morrow  ?  My  cous- 
ins, Tom  and  Kitty  Morgan,  are  here,  and  another  fellow, 
awfully  nice,  that  Tom  brought  with  him,  and  we  want 
to  do  something  to  entertain  them.  This  is  such  perfect 
weather  for  the  river.  We  will  come  up  from  Brenton  early, 
and  reach  Oakleigh  before  noon.  You  can  join  us  in  your 
boats,  and  we  will  go  higher  up  above  the  rapids  for  din- 
ner. If  you  will  bring  your  chafiug-dish  and  your  alcohol 
lamp  for  the  coffee  it  is  all  I  ask.  On  the  whole,  you  need 
not  bring  the  lamp.  We  will  build  a  fire.  But  the  chafing- 
dish  would  be  nice.  Do  come  !  DonH  fail.  Au  revoir 
until  to-morrow  at  about  twelve.  Devotedly, 

"  Gertrude. 

"  P.S.  I  am  sure  you  will  lose  your  heart  to  Tom's  friend. 
I  have  !" 

The  next  day,  shortly  before  noon,  the  Franklins  were 
awaiting  their  friends  on  the  Oakleigh  boat -landing. 
They  had  two  canoes,  one  that  the  family  had  owned  for 
a  year  or  two,  and  another  that  Mrs.  Franklin  had  given 
her  brother  on  his  birthday. 


101  ,.' 

Baskets  were  packed  in  tlic  "boats,  Go'ntaining  tlie  eiiaf- 
ino--dish,  some  sandwiches,  and  delicious  cake  that  Mrs. 
Franklin  had  had  made  as  her  contribution  to  the  picnic, 
and  a  large  box  of  candy  which  Neal  had  bought. 

It  was  a  glorious  day.  The  September  sun  shone 
brightly,  and  a  trifle  warmly,  on  the  dancing  river.  The 
gay  foliage  along  the  banks — for  the  autumn  tints  had  come 
early  this  year — was  reflected  in  the  clear  water,  and  a  gen- 
tle wind  stirred  the  white  birches.  An  army  of  crows  had 
encamped  near  by,  and  the  woods  rang  with  their  cawing 
as  they  carried  on  an  important  debate  among  themselves. 

Presently  around  the  curve  came  the  advance  guard  of 
the  picnic,  a  canoe  containing  Dennis  Morgan  and  his 
cousin  Kitty,  while  closely  following  them  was  another, 
paddled  by  Tom  Morgan,  in  which  sat  Gertrude  and  a 
stranger. 

They  all  waved  their  hats  and  handkerchiefs,  and  when 
they  came  within  speaking  distance  Gertrude  shouted : 

"  Isn't  it  fun  ?  Such  a  perfect  day,  and  more  fellows 
than  girls!  You  know  my  cousins,  don't  you,  except 
Neal  ?  Kitty  and  Tom,  let  me  present  Mr.  Gordon,  and 
this  is  Mr.  Bronson.  The  Misses  Edith  and  Cynthia 
Franklin,  Mr.  Tony  Bronson.  There  now,  did  I  do  it 
correctly  ?  Did  I  mention  the  ladies'  names  first,  and  then 
the  gentlemen's  ?  I  picked  up  a  book  on  etiquette  in  a 
shop  the  other  day,  and  it  said  you  must." 

Every  one  laughed,  and  no  one  noticed  but  Cynthia  that 
Neal's  face  darkened  when  he  heard  Bronson's  name  and 
saw  him  for  the  first  time.  Of  course,  she  knew  at  once 
who  he  was. 

"  There  ought  to  be  a  grand  change  of  partners,"  con- 
tinued the  lively  Gertrude,  "  but  it's  too  much  trouble. 


102 


However,  Tom,  you  had  better  get  out  and  take  one  of  the 
Oakleigh  canoes,  and  an  Oakleigh  girl  and  Jack  can  get 
in  here — unless  Mr.  Bronson  would  rather  be  the  one  to 
change." 

This  was  said  with  a  coquettish  glance  at  Bronson,  who 
in  a  low  voice  hastened  to  assure  her  that  he  was  more 
than  satisfied  with  his  present  position. 

He  was  a  handsome  fellow  of  about  seventeen,  tall  and 
of  somewhat  slight  build,  with  very  regular  features.  His 
eyes  were  his  weak  point.  They  were  of  a  pale  greenish- 
blue,  and  were  too  close  together. 

His  greeting  to  Neal  was  most  cordial.  *'  Holloa,  old 
fellow  !"  he  said,  "  this  is  a  piece  of  luck.  Miss  Morgan 
told  me  you  were  stopping  here,  so  I  was  prepared  for  the 
pleasure." 

"  As  if  he  hadn't  known  it  before,"  muttered  Neal  to 
Cynthia,  as  he  helped  her  into  the  canoe,  and  they  pushed 
off.  "  He  sent  that  letter  here  and  he  got  mine  from 
here.     He's  a  hypocritical  ass." 

"  Look  out,  Neal !"  cautioned  Cynthia  ;  "  you  know  how 
sound  carries  on  the  water."  And  she  was  quite  sure  from 
the  expression  on  Bronson's  face  that  he  had  heard. 

There  was  some  discussion  as  to  where  their  destination 
should  be. 

"  Let's  go  as  high  as  we  can,"  said  Gertrude.  "Above 
Charles  River  village." 

*'  But  there  is  the  '  carry,'  "  objected  her  brother. 

"  What  of  that  ?     We've  often  carried  before." 

"  Not  with  an  average  of  one  fellow  to  a  boat.  No,  I 
say  we  stop  the  other  side  of  the  small  rapids.  If  any 
one  wants  to  explore  above  there  on  his  own  account  he 
can  do  so." 


103 


It  was  finally  settled  thus,  and  the  party  set  forth.  It 
■was  a  pretty  sight.  The  cedar  canoes,  with  gay  carpets 
and  cushions,  and  freight  of  girls  and  boys  in  white  boat- 
ing costumes,  gave  the  needed  touch  of  life  to  the  peace- 
ful Charles  River.  So  Mrs.  Franklin  thought  when  she 
came  down  to  see  them  off. 

"  I  have  not  been  invited,"  she  said,  "  but  I  really  think 
I  must  drive  up  this  afternoon  and  see  your  encampment." 

"  Oh,  do,  Mrs.  Franklin  !"  cried  Gertrude,  enthusiasti- 
cally. <'We  would  just  love  to  have  you  come,  and  we 
ought  to  have  a  chaperon,  though  we  are  all  brothers  and 
sisters  and  cousins !  She  is  the  most  perfect  creature," 
she  added  to  Bronson,  as  they  moved  off.  "You  know 
she  is  the  Franklins'  step-mother.     Isn't  she  a  dear.  Jack  ?" 

Jack,  who  was  paddling,  acquiesced.  Bronson  sat  at 
ease  in  the  bow.  He  was  always  lazy.  Neal,  though 
averse  to  hard  work  which  was  work  only,  was  ready  for 
anything  in  the  way  of  athletics.  He  was  now  an  ac- 
complished paddler,  and  had  already  far  outstripped  the 
others. 

Their  destination  was  some  two  or  three  miles  up  the 
river.  The  water  was  low,  and  Cynthia  kept  a  sharp  look- 
out for  rocks. 

"  Keep  to  the  left  here,  Neal,"  she  directed  ;  "  that 
ledge  runs  all  across  the  river." 

"  I  bet  those  Brenton  fellows  will  scrape  going  through 
here.  Not  one  in  a  hundred  would  take  the  left.  I  haven't 
scraped  once  since  I  had  the  canoe.  The  bottom  is  as 
smooth  as  the  day  she  came,  and  that  is  saying  a  good 
deal  when  the  river  is  as  low  as  it  is  now." 

They  skirted  a  huge  oak-tree  which  had  fallen  half 
across  the  river,  and,  passing  through  some  gentle  rapids, 


104 


readied  the  cleared  shady  spot  on  the  bank  where  they 
were  to  eat  their  luncheon.  The  others  soon  arrived,  and 
preparations  vv'ere  immediately  begun  for  building  a  fire. 
The  boys  explored  the  neighborhood  for  dry  sticks,  and  a 
cheerful  little  blaze  was  soon  crackling  away  on  the  bank. 
Potatoes  had  been  buried  beneath  to  roast  in  the  ashes, 
and  the  coffee-pot,  filled  with  water  from  a  neighboring 
spring,  was  placed  above.  Dennis  Morgan,  whose  coffee 
was  far-famed  and  unrivalled,  superintended  this  part  of 
the  work. 

The  girls  unpacked  the  baskets,  and  spreading  a  table- 
cloth, arranged  the  goodies  most  temptingly  thereon. 

''Edith,  you  must  do  the  oysters  on  the  chafing-dish," 
said  Gertrude  ;  "  no  one  does  them  like  you." 

"  Oysters  !  Have  you  really  got  oysters  ?  How  per- 
fect !"  cried  Cynthia,  who,  laden  with  cups  and  saucers, 
was  stumbling  over  some  stray  boughs  at  the  imminent 
risk  of  herself  and  the  crockery. 

"  Let  me  help  you,  Miss  Franklin,"  said  Bronson,  com- 
ing languidly  forward. 

"  Oh  no,  thanks  !"  returned  Cynthia,  tartly.  "  I  would 
not  trouble  you  for  the  world.  You  have  quite  enough  to 
do." 

Dennis  Morgan,  who  heard  her,  turned  away  to  hide  a 
laugh.  Bronson  had  been  leaning  against  a  tree  most  of 
the  time  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  Come  now,  don't  be  too  hard  on  a  fellow,  Miss  Frank- 
lin. I'll  do  anything  ypu  ask.  A  fellow  feels  kind  of 
out  of  place,  don't  you  know,  with  so  many  working." 

"  Really  !  Well,  if  you  are  truly  anxious  to  make  your- 
self useful,  perhaps  you  will  get  some  ferns  to  decorate 
the  table  ?" 


105 


"Certainly,"  said  Bronson,  looking  about  him  in  a  help- 
less way ;  ''  will  these  do  ?"  and  he  broke  o2  a  large  brake. 

"  No,  of  course  not.  The  ones  I  want  grow  at  quite  a 
distance  from  here,  over  in  those  woods  there,"  pointing. 
"  Please  get  some." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Franklin,  so  far  ?  But  you  will  go  with  me, 
of  course." 

"'Of  course,'  did  I  hear  you  say?"  asked  Cynthia, 
straightening  herself  from  her  arrangement  of  the  table 
and  standing  very  erect,  with  a  bottle  in  one  hand  and  an 
olive  on  the  end  of  a  fork  in  the  other.  "  What  can  you 
be  thinking  of?  Of  course  ?20^.  /am  busy.  Bat  you 
have  no  time  to  lose  if  you  want  to  get  them  here  before 
lunch  is  ready.     It  is  a  good  half-mile  there  and  back." 

"  When  Miss  Franklin  commands  I  have  but  to  obey," 
said  Bronson,  with  a  bow,  though  there  was  a  disagreeable 
light  in  his  steely  eyes.  "  Who  will  take  pity  on  me  and 
go  with  me  ?     Miss  Morgan,  surely  you  will  be  so  good  ?" 

Gertrude  was  much  pleased  at  being  singled  out  by  the 
guest  of  the  occasion,  and  although  she  knew  that  the 
ferns  which  were  growing  in  profusion  all  about  them 
would  adorn  the  table  just  as  well,  she  gave  no  hint  of 
it,  for  she  was  not  averse  to  taking  the  walk  with  Bron- 
son. 

"Tell  me  about  the  Franklins,"  said  he,  as  he  took  her 
red  umbrella  and  opened  it.  "Are  they  fond  of  their 
step-mother?" 

"  All  but  Edith,  and  she  can't  bear  her,  and  I  don't 
think  she  is  over-fond  of  Neal,  either.  Tell  me  somethino- 
about  him,  Mr.  Bronson.  He  is  a  school-mate  of  yours, 
you  say  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me  !     I  think  it's  awfully  bad  form  for 


106 


one  fellow  to  give  away  another,  don't  you  know.  Of 
course,  some  fellows  would,  but  I'm  not  that  kind." 

Gertrude  admired  these  sentiments  extremely.  She 
wished  that  Bronson  would  hold  the  umbrella  at  an  angle 
that  would  shield  her  a  little  more.  It  was  entirely  over 
him,  while  she  herself  was  in  the  sun,  and  it  was  rather 
warm  walking.  However,  it  was  a  pleasure  to  have  her 
umbrella  carried  by  such  an  elegant-looking  individual, 
even  though  she  derived  no  benefit  from  it. 

From  his  words  and  manner  Gertrude  gathered  the  idea 
that  Bronson,  if  he  chose,  could  tell  something  very  much 
against  Neal  Gordon,  but  his  high  sense  of  honor  held  him 
back. 

"  What  a  lovely  fellow  he  is  !"  thought  Gertrude  ;  then 
she  said  aloud,  "  Of  course  I  would  not  have  you  for  the 
world.  I  have  always  fancied  there  might  be  something, 
don't  you  know  ?" 

Now  Gertrude  had  really  never  fancied  anything  of  the 
kind,  and  yet  she  did  not  dream  of  being  untruthful.  It  was 
an  idea  born  of  the  moment.  Her  vanity  prompted  her 
to  agree  with  Bronson,  who  was  apparently  such  a  very 
charming  fellow. 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,  Miss  Morgan  !  I  didn't  mean  to 
give  you  that  idea.  You're  so  awfully  clever,  you  have 
guessed  what  I  never  intended  to  say.  Don't  ever  tell 
what  I  said,  will  you  ?  I  wouldn't  take  away  the  fellow's 
character  for  the  world." 

Gertrude  blushed  and  promised,  pleased  to  find  herself 
in  the  position  of  having  a  secret  with  Bronson.  She  told 
her  cousin  Kitty,  afterwards,  that  he  really  talked  most 
confidentially  with  her. 

When  thev   returned,  luncheon    was    ready.     Cynthia 


107 


took  the  ferns  with  a  cool  "  Thank  you,"  looked  at  them 
critically  and  somewhat  dubiously,  and  laid  them  on  the 
impromptu  table. 

"  Terribly  anty,"  she  said,  shaking  a  spray  vigorously  in 
the  air.     "  Us^h  !  look  at  the  ants  I" 

"  Perhaps  those  that  grow  over  here  would  not  have  had 
any  ants,"  said  Bronson,  "  but  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you 
for  sending  me  for  these,  Miss  Franklin.  I  had  such  a 
charming  walk.  It  quite  repaid  me,  even  though  you  are 
so  chary  of  your  thanks." 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  returned  Cynthia,  "  but  not  as  glad  as  I 
am  famished." 

She  left  Bronson,  and  walking  around  to  the  farther 
side  of  the  table,  sat  down.  Neal  followed  her,  and 
presently  they  were  all  seated  and  enjoying  the  dainty 
meal.  Never  was  there  such  clear  and  fragrant  coftee, 
and  the  rich  cream  that  the  Franklins  had  brought  made 
it  "  equal  to  the  nectar  of  Olympus,"  said  Bronson ;  he 
was  addicted  to  airy  speech. 

The  oysters  were  done  to  a  turn  and  seasoned  to  a 
nicety,  and  the  sandwiches  melted  in  one's  mouth.  In 
the  midst  of  the  feast  they  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  on 
the  bridge,  and  looking  up,  they  saw  Mrs.  Franklin,  who 
was  driving  herself. 

"You  see  I  couldn't  stay  away,"  she  called  to  them. 
"  Jack,  come  tie  Bess  for  me,  and  then  let  me  have  a  bite, 
if  you  have  anything  to  spare." 

Edith's  face  clouded.  "  Why  did  she  have  to  come  so 
soon?"  she  thought,  and  her  expression  was  not  lost  on 
Bronson. 

'*  So  this  is  the  rich  sister  and  step-mother,"  thought 
Bronson  ;  "  and  the  eldest  daughter  doesn't  like  her  com- 


108 


ing.  Now,  I  don't  exactly  see  why  Gordon  can't  settle  the 
balance  if  she  has  such  a  pile.  Bat  I'll  lie  low  and  work 
him  easily." 

He  watched  his  opportunity,  and  after  luncheon  he  fol- 
lowed Neal  to  the  river-bank,  where  he  was  getting  a  pail 
of  water  for  dish-washing  purposes. 

"  I  say,  Gordon,  old  fellow,  I  haven't  had  a  chance  be- 
fore to  thank  you  for  sending  me  the  fifty.  You  see  I 
was  in  a  confounded  hole  myself,  and  there  was  no  way 
out  of  it  but  to  ask  you.  I  hated  to  dun  you.  As  for 
the  rest,  there's  no  hurry  about  that  whatever." 

Neal  looked  at  him.  His  brown  eyes  could  be  very 
searching  when  occasion  required.  Bronson  stooped,  and 
picking  up  a  flat  stone  from  the  little  beach  on  which  they 
were  standing,  he  tossed  it  across  the  river. 

"  Five  skips,"  said  he,  lightly,  as  he  turned  away. 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,"  said  Neah  "  Your  offer  is  very 
kind,  but  you  may  be  pretty  sure  that  I'll  pay  you  as  soon 
as  I  can.  I've  no  wish  to  be  under  obligations  to  you  any 
longer  than  is  necessary." 

"  As  you  like,"  returned  Bronson,  with  a  shrug ;  "  I 
only  thought  it  might  ease  your  mind  to  know  that  there's 
no  actual  hurry.  x\h,  Miss  Franklin,"  as  Cynthia  drew 
near,  "  can't  I  persuade  you  to  go  out  on  the  river  with 
me?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not.  I  should  think  that  you  hadn't  pad- 
dled a  great  deal,  as  I  noticed  that  you  took  your  ease 
coming  up." 

"  Miss  Franklin,  I  never  should  have  imagined  that  you 
were  timid  on  the  water.     How  little  one  can  tell !" 

*'  I  am  not  a  bit  timid,  but  I  don't  care  to  be  upset." 

<*  Upset !"  laughed  Bronson.     "  Why,  I've  been  upset  a 


109 


dozen  times.  In  such  a  shallow  ditch  as  this  it  wouldn't 
make  much  difference,  as  long  as  we're  suitably  dressed." 

Cynthia  looked  at  him  slowly,  criticisingly,  scornfully. 
Then  she  said : 

"I  should  think  bathing  clothes  were  the  only  things 
suitable  for  upsetting.  And  the  Charles  River  isn't  a 
ditch.  Of  course  you  didn't  know,  and  we  can  pardon  the 
ignorant  a  good  deal." 

Bronson  turned  away  and  left  them. 

"  That  last  was  a  scorcher,"  chuckled  Neal,  who  had 
been  listening  attentively.  "  If  there  is  one  thing  Bron- 
son hates  above  another,  it  is  to  be  thought  not  to  '  know 
it  all,'  and  he  caught  on  to  what  you  meant." 

Cynthia,  however,  felt  a  little  remorseful.  She  was 
quite  sure  that  she  had  been  rude.  Bronson  was  a  stran- 
ger, and  should  have  been  treated  with  the  politeness 
due  to  such.  But  then  he  was  Neal's  enemy,  and  Cyn- 
thia could  never  be  anything  but  loyal  to  Neal.  Thus  she 
soothed  her  conscience. 

When  luncheon  had  been  cleared  away  and  the  bas- 
kets packed  to  go  home,  Bronson  asked  Edith  if  she 
would  go  out  with  him  on  the  river. 

"  Just  for  a  little  paddle.  Miss  Franklin,"  he  said.    *'  Do 


come  1 


1" 


Cynthia  heard  him,  and  she  frowned  and  shook  her  head 
vigorously  at  her  sister,  hoping  that  she  would  not  go,  but 
Edith  had  no  intention  of  dechning  the  invitation.  She 
said  yes,  with  one  of  her  prettiest  smiles,  and  accompa- 
nied Bronson  to  the  place  where  the  canoes  were  drawn 
up  on  the  bank. 

"  I  suppose  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  which  one  I 
take,"  he  said,  and,  either  by  accident  or  design,  he  singled 


110 


out  Neal's  boat  and  put  it  into  the  water.  Edith  stepped 
in,  and  then  watched  Bronson's  movements  with  some 
trepidation.  He  did  not  seem  to  know  much  about  the 
management  of  a  canoe,  and  they  rocked  alarmingly  with 
his  short,  uncertain  strokes. 

"I'll  soon  get  the  hang  of  it,"  he  said,  reassuringly. 
"  I  have  never  been  much  on  a  river,  but  it's  easy  enough." 

Cynthia  walked  along  the  bank,  watching  them. 

"  I  hope  you've  got  a  life-preserver,  Edith  !  Mr.  Bron- 
son  says  he  is  in  the  habit  of  upsetting — likes  it,  in  fact — 
and  I'm  dreadfully  afraid  for  you.  You  know  you  can't 
swim,  and  Mr.  Bronson  will  never  be  able  to  save  you  as 
well  as  himself.  Do  be  careful  of  my  sister,  Mr.  Bronson. 
The  ditch  is  rather  deep  just  there.  Oh,  look  at  him  wig- 
gle 1"  she  added  to  Neal,  who  had  followed  her. 

"  And  the  fellow  has  taken  my  canoe  !"  growled  Neal. 

*'  Poor  Neal !  You  boasted  too  soon.  You'll  never 
again  be  able  to  say  there  isn't  a  scratch  on  the  bottom." 

"  I  only  hope  I  shall  ever  see  the  boat  again.  He'll  prob- 
ably smash  her  all  to  smithereens." 

"  I  suppose  it  makes  no  difference  if  Edith  is  '  smashed 
to  smithereens,'  only  the  canoe,"  remarked  Cynthia,  de- 
murely. 

In  the  meantime  Edith  was  having  an  exciting  voyage. 
Bronson  paddled  slowly  and  unevenly  up  the  river  until 
he  found  himself  in  the  rapids,  which  were  much  swifter 
and  more  dangerous  than  those  they  had  passed  through 
on  the  way  from  Oakleigh.  The  canoe  scraped  and 
creaked  over  the  rocks.  The  only  wonder  was  that  a  hole 
was  not  stove  at  once  in  the  bottom. 

They  were  in  the  midst  now  of  the  rushing  water. 
Suddenly  the  boat  lodged  for  a  moment  on  a  rock,  and 


Ill 


swayed  to  and  fro.  Down  to  the  very  water's  edge  went 
first  one  side  and  then  the  other.  A  half-inch  more  and 
they  would  have  capsized. 

Edith  sat  perfectly  silent,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe. 
Bronson,  never  before  so  quick  in  his  movements,  righted 
the  craft,  and  with  a  vigorous  push  of  the  paddle  got  off 
the  dangerous  rock. 

"I — I  think  it  would  be  rather  pleasanter  to  tie  up," 
faltered  Edith. 

"  So  do  I.  AVish  you  had  said  so  before.  Not  that  I 
mind  exploring,  but  it's  hot  work  such  a  day  as  this." 

They  found  a  shady  bank  and  drew  up  under  the  bushes. 
Edith  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke  ?"  asked  Bronson,  getting 
out  a  silver  cigarette-case  with  a  hlase  air. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all." 

"  That's  nice.  Now  we  can  be  comfortable.  I  am  so 
glad  you  came  with  me  this  afternoon,  for  I  want  to  talk 
to  you,  Miss  Franklin.  I  want  to  talk  freely  to  you  about 
something." 

Edith's  face  expressed  her  astonishment. 

"  You  look  surprised,"  he  continued,  "  but  you  will  not 
be  when  I  tell  you  what  it  is.  You  are  the  only  person 
whom  I  can  rely  on  to  manage  the  matter  well  and  to 
help  me.     It  is  connected  with  Neal  Gordon." 


CHAPTER  X 

Tony  Bronson  was  the  son  of  a  man  -who  had  made  a 
great  deal  of  money  in  a  doubtful  line  of  business  by 
rather  shady  proceedings.  In  other  words,  he  was  not 
strictly  honest,  and  had  amassed  a  large  fortune  in  a  man- 
ner that  would  not  bear  investigation. 

Of  this  Tony,  of  course,  was  ignorant ;  but  he  inherited 
from  his  father  a  mean  spirit  and  a  determination  to  turn 
every  circumstance  to  his  own  account.  He  had  been 
sent  early  to  St.  Asaph's  school  that  he  might  associate 
with  the  sons  of  gentlemen  and  become  a  gentleman  him- 
self, but  he  had  acquired  only  the  outward  veneering. 
His  manners  were  most  courteous,  his  language  carefully 
chosen,  and  he  had  sufficient  wit  to  enable  him  to  readily 
adapt  himself  to  his  companions,  but  he  had  not  the  in- 
stincts of  a  true  gentleman.  He  was  mean,  he  was  some- 
thing of  a  coward,  and  he  was  very  much  of  a  bully. 

Years  ago,  soon  after  the  two  boys  first  met  at  St. 
Asaph's,  Neal  detected  Tony  in  a  cowardly,  dishonorable 
action,  and  had  openly  accused  him  of  it.  Tony  never 
forgave  him,  but  he  bided  his  time.  With  an  unlimited 
amount  of  pocket-money  of  his  own,  he  soon  discovered 
that  Neal  was  running  short.  When  a  convenient  oppor- 
tunity came  he  offered  to  lend  him  a  small  sum.  Neal, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  weakly  accepted  the  money, 
assuring  himself  that  it  was  only  for  a  short  time  and 
that  he  could  easily  repay  it,  and  then  have  no  more  to  do 


113 


with  Bronson.  It  saved  him  trouble,  and  Neal  was  only 
too  ready  to  save  himself  trouble. 

Thus  it  had  gone  on.  The  time  never  came  when  Neal 
felt  able  to  pay  the  debt ;  on  the  other  hand,  he  borrowed 
more,  and  now  it  had  reached  alarming  proportions.  His 
monthly  allowance,  when  it  arrived,  was  gone  in  a  flash, 
for  Neal  had  never  been  in  the  habit  of  denying  himself. 
It  would  have  been  hard  for  him  to  explain  why  he  did 
not  go  frankly  to  his  sister,  tell  her  the  whole  story,  and 
ask  for  her  help,  except  that  he  was  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  having  placed  himself  in  such  straits  and  did  not  want 
to  acknowledge  it. 

Tony  Bronson  had  become  intimate  with  Tom  Morgan 
at  St.  Asaph's,  Tom  not  being  particular  in  his  choice  of 
friends.  In  that  way  he  had  come  to  visit  the  Morgans 
in  Brenton.  His  handsome  face  and  apparently  perfect 
manner  attracted  many  to  him  who  could  not  see  beneath 
the  surface,  and  his  languid  man-of-the-world  air  made  an 
impression. 

He  cultivated  this  to  the  last  degree.  He  was  not 
naturally  so  lazy,  but  he  thought  it  effective. 

When  he  said  to  Edith  that  he  wished  to  tell  her  some- 
thing about  Neal  Gordon  she  looked  at  him  in  still  greater 
surprise. 

"  I  want  to  ask  your  help.  Miss  Franklin.  A  girl  can 
manage  these  things  so  much  better  than  a  fellow.  I 
like  Gordon  immensely,  and  I  want  to  do  all  I  can  to  help 
him  out  of  a  scrape." 

"Does  he  know  that  you  are  speaking  to  me  about 
him?" 

"  No,  of  course  not.     The  fact  is — " 

"  Then  I  think,  Mr.  Bronson,"  interrupted  Edith,  gently, 


114 


but  with  decision,  "  that  perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  us 
not  to  discuss  him." 

*'  But  you  quite  misunderstand  me,  Miss  Franklin.  I 
am  speaking  only  for  his  own  good.  I  can't  bear  to  see 
a  fellow  going  straight  to  the  bad,  as  I  really  am  very 
much  afraid  he  is,  and  not  lift  a  finger  to  help  him.  I 
thought  if  I  told  you  that  perhaps  you  might  speak  to 
his  sister — " 

Edith  interrupted  him  again,  with  heightened  color. 
*'I  can  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  Nothing  would  induce 
me  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Franklin  on  the  subject.  I  —  I 
couldn't  possibly." 

Bronson  looked  at  her  compassionately. 

"  Ah,  it  is  as  I  thought !  You  and  Mrs.  Franklin  are 
not  congenial.     I  am  so  sorry." 

Edith  said  nothing.  She  knew  that  he  should  not 
make  sucli  a  remark  to  her,  a  perfect  stranger.  She  felt 
that  he  did  not  ring  true.  And  yet  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  administer  the  reproof  that  Cynthia  would  have 
given  under  like  circumstances. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  offended  you,"  said  Bronson,  pres- 
ently; "do  forgive  me!  And  if  you  like  I  will  say  no 
more  about  the  bad  scrape  Gordon  is  in.  I  thought  per- 
haps I  could  prevent  a  letter  coming  from  the  faculty,  but 
I  see  it's  of  no  use.  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  the  fellow. 
You  don't  really  think  you  could  do  anything  to  influence 
his  sister  ?" 

At  last  Edith  found  her  voice. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can.  And  if  you  don't  mind  I  would 
rather  not  discuss  the  Gordons — I  mean,  Mrs.  Franklin 
and  her  brother." 

"  Certainly  not,  if  you  don't  wish,   and  you  won't  re- 


115 


peat  what  I  said,  of  course.  If  we  can't  help  him,  of 
course  we  had  better  not  let  it  get  out  about  Gordon  any 
sooner  than  necessary.  But  holloa  !  What's  this  ?  The 
carpet  seems  to  be  getting  damp." 

It  undoubtedly  was,  and  gave  forth  a  most  unpleasantly 
moist  sound  when  pressed.  Upon  investigation  they  found 
that  the  bottom  of  the  canoe  was  filled  with  water.  They 
had  sprung  a  leak. 

"  We  had  better  get  back  as  quickly  as  possible,"  said 
Edith,  rather  relieved  to  have  the  conversation  come  to  an 
end.  "  Is  there  a  sponge  there  ?  I  can  bail  if  it  gets  any 
worse." 

But  no  sponge  was  to  be  found,  and  it  rapidly  grew 
worse  ;  Edith's  skirts  were  damp  and  draggled.  Present- 
ly there  was  an  inch  of  water  above  the  carpet. 

"  We  shall  sink  if  this  goes  on,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  I  fancy  not,"  returned  Bronson,  easily ;  "  we  haven't 
very  far  to  go." 

But  their  progress  was  not  rapid,  and  the  pool  in  the 
canoe  grew  deeper. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  lend  me  your  cap,"  said  Edith ;  "  I 
can  use  it  as  a  dipper."  He  did  so,  and  she  bailed  vigor- 
ously. "  It  must  be  a  very  large  leak.  I  suppose  we  got 
it  on  that  rock  in  the  rapids,  arid  we  scraped  again  just 
before  we  tied  up,  which  made  it  worse.  If  it  were  our 
boat  I  would  not  care,  but  I  think  it  is  Neal's." 

She  was  so  occupied  that  she  did  not  see  Bronson  smile. 
His  smile  was  not  attractive,  though  his  teeth  were  per- 
fect. 

Matters  would  have  gone  badly  with  them  if  they  had 
not  at  this  moment  met  Jack  and  Kitty  Morgan  in  the 
Franklins'  canoe. 


116 


"  What's  the  row  ?"  called  Jack. 

"  Nothing  much,"  said  Bronson.  "  We've  sprung  a  lit- 
tle leak,  that's  all." 

"  A  little  leak  !  I  should  think  so.  My  eye  !  Why, 
man,  you  must  have  a  regular  hole  for  the  water  to  come 
in  like  that.  Where  have  you  been,  anyhow  ?  You  had 
better  put  in  here  at  this  little  beach  and  step  over  into 
my  boat." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  stepping  over  right  where  we 
are  ?     No  need  of  going  to  shore." 

Jack  eyed  him  with  curiosity  and  contempt.  He  looked 
so  much  like  Cynthia  that  Bronson  felt  withered.  He  did 
not"  care  for  Cynthia,  for  he  knew  that  she  did  not  like 

him. 

Jack  did  not  speak  at  once,  but  paddled  towards  the 
bank.     Then  he  said  : 

"  You  won't  try  stepping  from  one  canoe  to  another  in 
mid-stream  if  I  have  anything  to  say  about  it." 

The  change  was  safely  accomplished,  and  they  proceed- 
ed down  the  river  towing  the  injured  boat,  the  carpet  and 
cushions  having  been  transferred  with  the  passengers. 
Kelieved  of  the  weight  it  did  not  fill  as  rapidly,  and  they 
at  last  reached  the  picnic  ground. 

Bronson  was  mortified  at  coming  back  in  such  ignomin- 
ious plight,  but  he  made  the  best  of  it. 

"  I  am  awfully  sorry,  Gordon,  if  it  is  your  canoe.  It 
must  have  been  pretty  frail,  though,  to  go  to  pieces  at  a 
mere  scratch." 

"  She's  the  finest  cedar  canoe  to  be  found  in  the  city  of 
Boston,  and  it  would  take  more  than  a  mere  scratch  to  do 
her  up  this  way.  From  appearances  I  should  say  you  had 
pounded  round  in  the  rocks  pretty  freely,"  growled  Neal, 


117 


who  had  turned  the  boat  upsidedown,  and  was  examining 
it  carefully. 

Bronson  stooped  over  him.  For  the  moment  they  were 
alone. 

"  Of  course  I  would  feel  worse  about  it  if  it  were  any 
one's  but  yours.  As  it  is,  we'll  just  call  ten  off  of  that 
fifty  still  owing.  That  will  go  towards  repairs.  More 
than  cover  them,  I  should  say." 

Then  he  sauntered  off,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  What  a  cad  the  fellow  is  !"  muttered  Neal.  "  It  would 
give  me  real  pleasure  to  knock  him  down." 

"I  heard  him,"  said  Cynthia.  Her  cheeks  were  red 
and  her  blue  eyes  had  grown  very  dark.  "  He  is  an  odi- 
ous, hateful  creature,  and  I  de-spise  him  !" 

Having  delivered  herself  of  this,  Cynthia  felt  better. 

They  all  went  home  soon  afterwards,  Edith  leaving  ear- 
lier in  the  carriage  with  Mrs.  Franklin,  for  her  shoes  and 
skirts  were  too  wet  for  her  to  wait  for  the  slower  move- 
ments of  the  canoes.  It  was  an  unfortunate  ending  to  the 
day,  and  Edith  was  uncomfortable  also  about  her  conversa- 
tion with  Bronson.  She  knew  that  she  ought  not  to  have 
listened  to  a  word  of  it. 

She  wondered  if  it  were  really  true  that  Neal  was  in  dif- 
ficulty. She  thought  she  must  talk  it  over  with  Cynthia 
that  night.  Of  course  Cynthia  would  stand  up  for  Neal, 
that  went  without  saying,  but  it  was  always  a  relief  to 
Edith  to  talk  things  over  with  her. 

It  was  a  rather  silent  drive  home,  and  Mrs.  Franklin 
sighed  to  herself  when  Edith  barely  replied  to  her  re- 
marks. It  seemed  perfectly  hopeless ;  she  and  Edith 
would  never  grow  any  nearer  to  each  other ;  but  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done. 


118 


That  night,  when  the  girls  went  to  their  room,  Edith 
was  spared  the  necessity  of  opening  the  subject,  for  Cyn- 
thia began  at  once. 

"  What  a  perfectly  hateful  creature  that  Bronson  is  !  I 
don't  see  how  you  could  go  on  the  river  with  him,  Edith. 
I  think  you  got  well  paid  for  it." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  dislike  him  so,  Cynthia.  You 
take  such  tremendous  prejudices.  He  is  awfully  hand- 
some." 

"  Handsome  !  I  don't  admire  that  style.  That  la-de- 
da-it -is-I-just-please-look-at-me  kind  doesn't  go  down  with 
me." 

Cynthia  thrust  her  hands  into  imaginary  pockets,  leaned 
languidly  against  the  bedpost,  and  rolled  her  eyes. 

"Er — Miss  Franklin — carnt  I  persuade  you  to  go  out 
on  the  rivah  ?"  she  said,  with  an  exaggerated  manner  and 
accent,  and  a  throaty  voice. 

Edith  laughed.     Cynthia  was  a  capital  mimic. 

"  I  like  a  broad  A,  and,  of  course,  1  never  would  use  any- 
thing else  myself,  but  his  is  broader  than  the  Mississippi. 
It  just  shows  it  isn't  natural  to  him.  To  hear  him  talk 
about  '  darmp  grarss,'  and  he'd  just  come  from  '  Soutli- 
armpton.'  He  is  a  regular  sharm  himself.  I  dare  say  he 
was  brought  up  to  say  *  ca'm '  and  *  pa'm '  and  '  hain't '  and 
*  ain't.' " 

"  Cynthia,  what  a  goose  you  are  !" 

*'  Well,  I  can't  bear  him,  and  neither  can  Neal.  Jack 
doesn't  like  him  either." 

"  There,  that  is  just  it.  You  are  so  influenced  by  Neal 
and  Jack.  Tony  Bronson  spoke  very  nicely  of  Neal,  as  if 
he  were  a  true  friend  of  his." 

"  Pooh  !     Much  friend,  he  !" 


*119 


"  Well,  he  did,  Cyntliia,  and  that  is  just  what  I  want 
to  talk  over  with  you.  Neal  must  be  in  some  terrible 
scrape." 

"  Has  that  Bronson  been  telling  you  about  that  ?"  cried 
Cynthia,  indignantly. 

"  Oh,  then  it  is  really  true  !     I  thought  it  must  be." 

*'  No,  it  isn't — at  least,  not  what  Bronson  told  you.  I 
am  just  certain  that  whatever  he  told  you  wasn't  true," 
said  Cynthia,  who  felt  that  she  had  said  more  than  she 
should.  "  I  shouldn't  think  you  would  have  discussed 
Neal  with  him.     Neal  is  one  of  our  family." 

"  I  didn't,"  said  Edith,  somewhat  curtly,  "  though  I 
don't  exactly  see  why  you  should  speak  of  Neal  Gordon 
as  one  of  our  family.  I  told  Mr.  Bronson  I  preferred 
not  to  talk  about  him.  But  he  spoke  so  nicely  of  Neal, 
and  said  he  wanted  to  help  him,  and  he  was  afraid  the 
faculty  would  write  about  him,  and  he  wanted  to  get  him 
out  of  the  scrape  if  he  could." 

"  Oh,  the  hypocrite  !  But  what  is  the  scrape  ?  Did  he 
say  ?" 

"  No,  I  wouldn't  let  him.  But  it  is  absurd  to  call  him  a 
hypocrite,  Cynthia.  I  shall  never  believe  it  unless  you 
tell  me  why  you  think  so." 

"  I  can't  do  that,  but  I  know  he  is,"  said  Cynthia,  stoutly ; 
"  you  have  just  got  to  take  my  word  for  it,  for  I  can't  ex- 
plain." 

The  girls  talked  far  into  the  night,  but  Edith  was  not 
convinced.  She  felt  that  there  was  something  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it  all,  for  Cynthia  could  not  deny  it.  After  all, 
she  was  sorry.  Edith  liked  Neal,  a  Gordon  though  he 
was.  But  she  did  not  doubt  that  he  was  in  a  difficulty  of 
some  kind. 


120 


The  summer  was  over  and  the  glorious  autumn  leaves 
dropped  from  the  trees,  leaving  the  branches  bare  and 
ready  for  the  coming  of  snow.  One  could  see  the  course 
of  the  river  plainly  now  from  Oakleigh  windows.  Beauti- 
ful October  was  swallowed  up  by  chill  November,  and  the 
wind  grew  biting.  One  was  glad  of  the  long  evenings, 
when  the  curtains  could  be  drawn  and  the  lamps  lighted 
early  to  shut  out  the  gray  skies  and  dreary  landscape. 

Neal  was  back  at  St.  Asaph's  and  the  winter  work  had 
begun.  Cynthia  and  Jack  went  every  day  to  Boston,  and 
Edith  also  went  in  three  times  a  week  for  lessons.  She 
objected  to  this  on  the  plea  of  expense,  much  as  she  de- 
sired a  thorough  education.  She  greatly  feared  her  step- 
mother had  brought  it  about.  But  her  father  reprimanded 
her  sharply  when  she  said  something  of  this,  and  insisted 
that  she  should  do  as  he  desired. 

The  poultry  had  already  begun  to  bring  in  a  little  mon- 
ey, for  Jack  sold  a  few  "  broilers  "  to  his  mother  at  mar- 
ket prices,  though  she  usually  added  a  few  cents  more  a 
pound. 

^'  They  are  so  delicious,  Jack,"  said  she  ;  "  better  than  I 
could  get  anywhere  else,  and  worth  the  money." 

He  kept  his  accounts  most  carefully,  and  it  was  pleas- 
ant to  write  down  a  few  figures  on  the  page  for  receipts, 
which  thus  far  had  presented  an  appalling  blank. 

In  due  time  came  a  present  to  Edith  from  Aunt  Betsey  : 
a  package  containing  an  old-fashioned  camel's-hair  scarf 
that  had  belonged  to  "  Grandmother  Trinkett,"  and,  scat- 
tered among  its  folds,  five  ten-dollar  gold  pieces. 

Government  had  proved  worthy  of  the  old  lady's  trust, 
for  the  money  had  come  safely  ;  but  then  she  had  actually 
addressed  the  package  clearly  and  correctly. 


131 


Edith,  of  course,  was  much  pleased,  and  notwithstanding 
her  aunt's  suggestion  that  she  should  place  it  in  the  sav- 
ings-bank, she  determined  to  expend  the  money  in  a  hand- 
some winter  suit  and  hat.     She  dearly  loved  nice  clothes. 

Cynthia  looked  somewhat  scornfully  at  the  new  gar- 
ments. 

"  If  Aunt  Betsey  sends  me  fifty  dollars,  you  won't  catch 
me  spending  it  on  finery,"  she  informed  her  family ;  "  I 
have  other  things  to  do  with  my  money." 

She  did  not  know  how  truly  she  spoke,  nor  what  would 
be  the  result  of  her  manner  of  spending  Aunt  Betsey's 
present. 

The  fall  slipped  quickly  by,  and  the  Christmas  holidays 
drew  near,  Neal  was  coming  to  Oakleigh,  and  many  things 
were  planned  for  the  entertainment  of  the  young  people. 

Cynthia  went  about  fairly  bursting  with  excitement  and 
secrets.  This  was  her  best-loved  time  of  the  whole  year, 
and  she  was  making  the  most  of  it. 

The  25th  of  December  fell  on  a  Wednesday  this  year, 
and  Neal  came  down  from  St.  Asaph's  on  Monday,  to 
be  in  good  season  for  the  festivities  of  Christmas  Eve. 
Plenty  of  snow  had  fallen,  and  all  kinds  of  jolly  times  were 
looked  for. 

Outside  the  scene  was  wintry  indeed,  and  the  white 
walls  of  Oakleigh  looked  cold  and  dreary  in  the  setting 
of  snow  which  lay  so  thickly  over  river,  meadow,  and 
hill,  but  in  the  house  there  v/as  plenty  of  life  and  cheery 
warmth.  Great  fires  burned  briskly  in  all  the  chimneys, 
and  the  rooms  were  bright  and  cosey  with  warm-looking 
carpets  and  curtains  and  comfortable  furniture.  There 
had  been  a  good  deal  done  to  the  house,  both  outside  and 
in,  since  the  coming  of  Mrs.  Franklin.     Edith  still  main- 


123 


tained  to  herself  that  she  did  not  like  it,  but  every  one 
else  thought  matters  vastly  improved. 

"  Hurray  !  hurray  !"  cried  Jack,  rushing  into  the  house 
on  Tuesday  and  slamming  down  his  books  ;  "  good-bye  to 
school  for  ten  days  !  It  was  a  mean  shame  that  we  had 
to  have  school  at  all  this  week.  Neal,  you  were  in  luck. 
St.  Asaph's  must  be  mighty  good  fun,  anyhow.  By-the- 
way,"  continued  he,  holding  his  chilled  hands  to  the  fire, 
"  I  saw  that  Bronson  fellow  in  town  to-day — the  one  that 
smashed  your  canoe." 

"You  did?"  said  Neal,  glancing  up  from  his  book, 
while  Cynthia  gave  an  exclamation  of  disgust. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack,  "  and  he  said  the  Morgans  had  asked 
him  out  here  for  the  holidays,  so  I  guess  we  are  in  for  an- 
other dose.  It  strikes  me  they  must  be  pretty  hard  up  for 
company  to  want  him." 

Neal  said  nothing.  Edith  looked  up  from  her  work 
and  watched  him  sharply,  but  his  face  told  little. 

"  Hateful  thing !"  exclaimed  Cynthia ;  "  I  would  like  to 
pack  my  trunk  and  take  a  train  out  of  Brenton  as  he  comes 
in  on  another." 

"  I  can't  see  why  you  all  dislike  him  so,"  observed 
Edith.     "You  detest  him,  don't  you,  Neal  ?" 

"  Oh,  Edith,  do  hush  !"  cried  Cynthia.  "Yes,  of  course 
he  does ;  he's  hateful."  But  Neal  still  said  nothing,  and 
Edith  got  no  satisfaction. 

Christmas  Eve  closed  in  early.  At  about  four  o'clock  it 
began  to  snow,  and  the  wind  blew  great  drifts  against  the 
side  of  the  house.  Every  one  said  it  was  going  to  be  an 
old-fashioned  Christmas. 

It  was  the  custom  in  the  Franklin  household  to  look  at 
the  presents  that  night.     As  Cynthia  said,  when  arguing 


123 


the  point  with  some  one  who  thought  it  a  shocking  idea 
to  see  one's  gifts  before  Christmas  morning,  it  made  it  so 
much  more  exciting  to  open  their  own  packages  and  to 
look  at  their  treasures  by  lamplight.  Then  in  the  morn- 
ing they  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  a  second  time, 
and  of  investigating  their  stockings,  which,  of  course,  were 
hung  ready  for  the  coming  of  Santa  Claus. 

After  supper  Jack  and  Neal  carried  in  the  great  clothes- 
basket  which  for  days  had  been  the  receptacle  for  pack- 
ages of  all  sizes  and  kinds,  those  that  had  come  by  post 
and  those  which  the  family  themselves  had  carefully  tied 
up,  until  now  it  looked  like  Santa  Claus's  own  pack. 

Mrs.  Franklin  presided  at  the  basket  and  read  the  names, 
and  when  the  colored  ribbons  were  untied  and  the  tempt- 
ing-looking white  parcels  were  opened  there  were  shrieks 
and  exclamations  of  delight,  for  every  one  declared  that 
this  particular  gift  was  just  what  he  or  she  most  desired. 

Each  one  had  a  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  upon 
which  to  place  his  treasures,  and  when  all  was  done  the 
"long  parlor"  at  Oakleigh  looked  like  a  fancy  bazaar,  so 
many  and  varied  were  the  articles  displayed. 

There  was  an  odd-looking  package  addressed  to  Jack 
and  Cynthia.  It  was  heavy  and  was  covered  with  post- 
age-stamps in  consequence,  and  proved  to  be  a  large  box 
stuffed  with  straw. 

*'  What  under  the  sun  is  it  ?  Of  course  it's  from  Aunt 
Betsey,"  said  Jack,  as  he  rooted  down  into  the  hay,  scatter- 
injr  it  in  all  directions.  Out  came  what  appeared  to  be 
an  egg  tied  up  with  old-fashioned  plaided  ribbon,  and  an 
ancient -looking  beaded  purse.  The  purse  was  marked 
"  Cynthia,"  so  Jack  appropriated  the  eggj  but  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  chagrin. 


124 


"  She  is  sending  coals  to  Newcastle,"  said  he.  "  Aunt 
Betsey  must  have  thought  it  was  Easter.  But  it  is  the 
queerest-feeling  egg  I  ever  came  across.  It's  as  heavy  as 
lead." 

He  shook  it  and  held  it  up  to  the  light. 

"  Ha,  ha !"  said  he  ;  *'  a  good  egg  !  I'd  like  to  have 
the  machine  packed  with  just  such  eggs." 

Inside  were  ten  five -dollar  gold  pieces,  and  Cynthia 
found  the  same  in  her  purse. 

"I  will  put  mine  away  for  a  'safety'  in  the  spring," 
said  Jack,  clinking  his  gold  with  the  air  of  a  miser,  and 
examining  the  empty  egg-shells.  "  Isn't  Aunt  Betsey  a 
daisy  and  no  mistake?  Just  see  the  way  she's  fixed  up 
this  e^'g-shell ;  she  cut  it  in  half  as  neat  as  a  pin.  I  don't 
see  how  she  ever  did  it." 

"  I  wish  I  had  an  Aunt  Betsey,"  remarked  Neal ;  "  those 
gold  pieces  would  come  in  pretty  handy  just  now." 

"  Aunt  Betsey  is  so  fond  of  giving  gold,"  said  Cynthia. 
"  She  always  says  it  is  real  money,  and  bills  are  nothing 
hut  paper.  I  shall  put  mine  away  for  the  present,  until  I 
think  of  something  I  want  terribly  much,  and  then  I  will 
go  grandly  to  Boston  and  buy  it  like  a  duchess.  Goody 
Two-shoes,  but  I  feel  rich  !" 

And  she  danced  gayly  up  and  down  the  room,  waving 
her  purse  in  the  air. 

Neal  had  very  nice  presents,  but  he  was  disappointed  to 
find  that  there  was  no  money  among  them.  He  suspected, 
and  correctly,  that  his  sister  and  her  husband  had  thought 
it  wiser  not  to  give  him  any  more  at  present. 

"  Then  I'm  in  for  it,"  thought  he.  "  I'll  have  to  ask 
Hessie,  and  there'll  be  no  end  of  a  row.  Of  course  she 
will  give  it  to  me  in  the  end,  but  it  would  have  been  nicer 


125 


all  round  if  she  had  come  out  handsomely  with  a  Christ- 
mas check.  Of  course  these  skates  are  dandy,  and  so  is 
the  dress-suit  case  and  the  nobby  umbrella  and  the  sleeve- 
buttons  ;  but  just  at  present  I  would  rather  have  the  cash 
they  all  cost." 

He  said  something  of  this  afterwards  to  Cynthia. 

"Bronson  is  screwing  me  for  all  he's  worth,"  said  he. 
"  I'll  have  to  get  the  money  somehow,  and  fifty  dollars  is 
no  joke.  Of  course,  I  am  not  going  to  take  off  the  ten  he 
so  kindly  offered  for  the  canoe ;  I'd  like  to  see  myself ! 
If  Hessie  doesn't  see  matters  in  the  same  light  I'll  have 
to  do  something  desperate.  But,  of  course,  she  will  give 
it  to  me." 

"  Neal,"  said  Cynthia,  impulsively,  "  if  mamma  doesn't 
give  you  the  money  you  must  borrow  it  of  me.  There  is 
that  fifty  dollars  Aunt  Betsey  has  given  me.  You  can 
have  it  just  as  well  as  not." 

"  Cynthia,  you're  a  brick,  and  no  mistake,"  said  Neal, 
looking  at  her  affectionately,  "  but  you  know  I  wouldn't 
take  your  money  for  the  world.  You  must  think  me  a 
low-down  sort  of  fellow  if  you  think  I  would." 

"  How  absurd !  It  is  a  great  deal  better  to  owe  it  to 
me  instead  of  to  a  stranger  like  Bronson,  or  any  one  else. 
I'm  sure  I  think  of  you  just  as  if  you  were  my  brother, 
and  Jack  wouldn't  mind  taking  it.  You  can  pay  it  back 
when  you  get  your  own  money." 

"  Yes,  nine  years  from  now,"  said  NeaL  "  No,  indeed, 
Cynth,  I'll  have  to  be  pretty  hard  up  before  I  borrow  of  a 
girl." 

"  I  think  you  are  too  bad,"  said  Cynthia,  almost  crying ; 
"  I  don't  see  the  difference  between  a  girl  and  anybody 
else.     I  don't  need  the  money ;  I  don't  know  what  to  buy 


126 


with  it.     I  would  just  love  to  have  you  take  it.     It  would 
be  lovely  to  think  my  money  had  paid  your  debts,  and 
then  you  could  start  all  fresh.     Please,  Neal,  say  you  will 
if  mamma  does  not  give  it  to  you." 
But  Neal  would  not  promise. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Christmas  morning  dawned  cloudy  and  very  cold,  but 
it  had  stopped  snowing,  and  after  a  while  the  sun  came  out 
and  turned  the  country  into  a  radiant,  dazzling  spectacle. 

Cynthia  and  the  boys  went  forth  to  dig  out  some  of  the 
paths  and  have  a  good  time  in  the  snow.  Bob,  frantic 
with  delight,  ploughed  about  in  the  drifts,  jumping,  diving, 
shaking  off  the  dry  flakes,  and  turning  wonderful  somer- 
saults, to  the  great  entertainment  of  Janet  and  Willy,  who, 
too  small  to  venture  out  before  the  paths  were  cut,  watched 
the  others  from  the  window. 

A  gigantic  snow  man  was  in  course  of  construction  when 
it  became  time  to  go  to  church,  and  they  all  bundled  them- 
selves up  in  furs  and  warm  clothes,  and  packed  themselves 
in  the  three-seated  sleigh  under  the  buffalo-robes.  It  was 
great  fun  to  drive  the  three  miles  to  the  village  after  such 
a  storm,  the  children  thought,  for,  although  a  four-horse 
team  had  been  sent  out  early  from  Oakleigh  to  break  the 
road,  their  progress  was  slow  and  exciting. 

Then  came  the  Christmas  dinner,  with  turkey  and  plum- 
pudding  and  mince-pie,  and  plenty  of  laughter  and  jokes, 
and  after  that  the  family  settled  down  to  read  their  new 
books,  look  at  their  presents  anew,  and  amuse  themselves 
in  various  ways. 

The  Franklins  were  to  have  a  party  during  the  holidays, 
and  it  had  been  planned  for  the  following  Tuesday — New 
Year's  Eve. 


128 


"If  we  had  only  arranged  to  have  it  earlier  we  might 
have  escaped  that  horrid  Bronson,"  said  Cynthia,  regret- 
fully, the  day  after  Christmas.  "  Now,  of  course,  he  will 
come  with  the  Morgans,  and,  worse  still,  we  shall  have  to 
be  polite  to  him  in  our  own  house." 

"I  should  hope  so,"  said  Edith.  "You  were  rude 
enough  to  him  at  the  picnic,  and  I  do  think  good  manners 
are  so  attractive.  I  am  going  to  cultivate  them  as  much 
as  possible.  No  one  will  ever  like  you  unless  you  are 
polite,  Cynthia." 

"  I  seem  to  have  plenty  of  friends,"  returned  her  sister, 
composedly,  "  and  I  don't  really  care  to  have  Bronson  like 
me.  In  fact,  I  would  rather  prefer  that  he  shouldn't.  I 
wouldn't  consider  it  much  of  a  compliment  to  be  liked  by 
a — a — creature  like  that !" 

It  would  be  impossible  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  con- 
tempt in  Cynthia's  voice  as  she  said  this. 

"  And  if  you  are  going  to  have  such  lovely  manners,  I 
should  think  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  begin  at  home," 
she  added. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  you  will  like  it,  but  really,  Edith, 
sometimes  it  does  seem  as  if  you  just  tried  to  hurt  mamma's 
feelings.  I  know  I  ought  not  to  say  this,  perhaps,  for  you 
think  I  am  only  a  younger  sister,  I  suppose,  and  haven't 
any  right  to  lecture  you ;  but  when  I  remember  how  nice 
you  really  are,  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  act  so.  If  you 
only  would  try  to  like  her,  instead  of  trying  not  to  like 
her !  There,  don't  cry,  dear ;  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your 
feelings." 

And  Cynthia  threw  her  arms  around  her  sister  and 
kissed  her. 


129 


*' You  have  hurt  them,"  said  Edith,  with  a  sob,  "but  I 
know  I  deserve  it.  I  don't  know  what  has  gotten  into  me 
since  the  Gordons  came.  I  canH  like  her  being  here.  Oh, 
Cynthia,  you  don't  know  how  I  feel  sometimes  !  I  wish  I 
didn't  have  such  bad,  wicked  thoughts." 

"  Do  you  really  try  to  get  over  it,  Edith  ?" 

"  No-o,  not  very  hard,"  she  faltered ;  "  I  can't  forgive 
her  for  coming  and  taking  my  place,  and — and — I  don't 
want  to  forgive  her.  There,  I  know  you  will  think  I  am 
bad  and  horrible  and  everything  else,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

And,  rising  abruptly,  she  left  the  room. 

"Poor  old  Edith!"  sighed  Cynthia,  compassionately. 
*'  She  will  come  round  some  time  ;  she  can't  help  it." 

Now  that  Christmas  was  over,  the  Franklins  devoted 
themselves  to  coasting,  which,  owing  to  a  slight  thaw  and 
a  freeze,  had  become  excellent.  It  slightly  lessened  the 
pleasure  of  Cynthia  and  Neal  that  the  Morgans,  with  Tony 
Bronson  in  attendance,  usually  met  them  on  their  favorite 
hill  with  their  sleds ;  but  the  Christmas  spirit  was  in  the  air, 
and  nothing  was  said  or  done  to  mar  the  peace,  and  to  out- 
w\ard  seeming  the  two  boys  were  perfectly  good  friends. 

On  New  Year's  Eve  was  to  be  the  Franklins'  party. 

"  Edith,  we  must  have  it  very  original  and  unique,  some- 
thing quite  different  from  anything  we  have  ever  had  in 
our  lives,"  said  Cynthia,  a  few  days  before. 

"  How  can  we  ?     There's  nothing  new." 

"  Yes,  there  is,  right  in  my  head.     I  have  an  idea." 

"  What  in  the  world  is  it  ?" 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  and  she  proceeded  to  unfold  it. 

It  proved  to  be  a  good  one,  and  with  Mrs.  Franklin's 
help  it  was  carried  into  effect.     The  suggestion  was  to 


130 


have  a  "  cliaracter  "  party,  but  to  enact  the  parts  without 
dressing  especially  for  them.  A  list  was  made  of  persons 
well  known  in  history  or  fiction,  and  from  this  list  Mrs. 
Franklin  chose  those  she  considered  the  best,  and  wrote 
against  each  name  that  of  some  girl  or  boy  in  Brenton. 
This  she  did  without  telling  her  daughters  how  she  had 
apportioned  the  parts,  that  they  might  be  as  ignorant  as 
their  guests  about  one  another's  characters. 

"It  is  a  truly  Bostonese  party,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin, 
laughing,  when  they  talked  it  over.  "There  is  an  intel- 
lectual flavor  to  it  that  you  wouldn't  find  far  away  from 
nhe  Hub,'  but  it  is  a  capital  idea,  nevertheless,  Cynthia." 

AVhen  the  list  was  duly  made  Mrs.  Franklin  drove  about 
Brenton  to  the  various  girls  and  boys  who  were  expected, 
and  invited  them  for  Tuesday  evening,  explaining  to  them 
at  the  same  time  what  they  were  to  do. 

It  was  an  old-fashioned  tea-party,  and  the  guests  began 
to  arrive  at  six  o'clock.  There  were  twenty  in  all,  and 
they  came  hurrying  in  out  of  the  cold,  and  up-stairs  to 
remove  their  heavy  wraps,  the  girls  tripping  down  again 
in  their  dainty  evening  dresses,  while  the  boys  stood  about 
the  doorways  in  rather  an  aimless  fashion,  wondering  what 
they  were  expected  to  do  at  such  a  very  peculiar  tea-party 
as  this  seemed  to  be. 

It  added  to  the  mystery  that  each  was  given  a  card  with 
his  or  her  own  name  prettily  printed  upon  it,  and  a  little 
pencil  attached. 

"  I  never  heard  of  anything  like  it,  don't  you  know," 
drawled  Bronson.  "I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know  what  to 
talk  about." 

After  supper,  which  was  very  jolly  and  effectually  broke 
the  ice,  Mr.  Franklin  made  a  little  speech. 


131 


"  You  are  all  supposed  to  be  somebody,  and  no  one  but 
my  wife  knows  which  is  which,"  he  said.  *'  The  object  is 
for  each  one  to  guess  as  many  characters  as  possible  from 
their  conversation,  and  when  you  have  made  up  your  mind 
who  some  one  is,  you  will  write  the  name  on  your  card, 
with  the  name  of  the  person  you  are  guessing  about. 
When  your  card  is  filled  with  twenty-four  names,  which 
means  that  you  have  given  a  guess  about  every  one  here, 
you  will  hand  it  in.     Then  the  prizes  will  be  bestowed." 

"  Prizes  !"  was  murmured  by  the  girls ;  ''  how  lovely  !" 
while  the  boys  looked  reheved  as  the  matter  became 
clearer. 

Cynthia  turned  to  her  nearest  neighbor  and  began  to 
talk. 

"  Good-evening !"  she  said ;  "  did  you  see  anything  of 
my  broom  ?  I  forgot  to  bring  it  along.  Dear  me,  there's 
a  lot  to  bo  done  up  there,"  gazing  towards  the  ceiling ; 
"  why  didn't  I  bring  it  along  ?" 

The  neighbor  chanced  to  be  Dennis  Morgan. 

"  I  haven't  seen  your  broom,"  he  replied,  "  but  I'm  go- 
ing to  find  out  why  you  want  it.  The  trouble  is,  I've 
come  too  soon,  I  think,  and  I  can't  find  my  way ;  but  I 
can't  tell  you  where  I  want  to  go,  or  you  would  guess  me 
on  the  spot." 

"  Ho  1"  laughed  Cynthia ;  "  I  know  where  you  want  to 
go.  I  think  you  would  like  a  glass  of  water,  wouldn't 
you  ?  For  I  am  sure  you  have  burned  your  mouth,"  she 
added,  in  a  whisper. 

Then  she  wrote  on  her  card:  "Dennis  Morgan — Man 
in  the  Moon." 

"  Pshaw !  How  did  you  guess  me  so  soon  ?  And  I 
haven't  the  ghost  of  an  idea  who  you  are.     Let  me  see, 


133 


you  want  your  broom.     I  can't  imagine  why  you  need  a 
broom." 

"Cobwebs,  cobwebs  everywhere,"  murmured  CyntLia, 
as  she  turned  away  and  listened  to  the  conversation  that 
was  being  carried  on  between  Neal  and  Gertrude  Mor- 
gan. 

<'  I'm  a  wonderful  man,"  said  Neal.  *'  In  fact,  I  don't 
know  but  what  I'm  about  as  great  a  person  as  you  ever 
heard  of.  You  can't  mention  my  name  without  alluding 
to  it." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  are  half  as  great  as  I  am,"  retorted 
Gertrude,  "  only  I  don't  talk  as  much  about  it.  Why,  I 
am  a  queen." 

"  And  I  am  a  king.  What  kind  of  a  queen  are  you  ?" 
"  I  rule  over  a  very  important  kingdom,  and  not  only 
do  I  reign  but  I  can  cook,  too.  I  am  one  of  those  very 
convenient  people  to  have  about  that  can  turn  their  hand 
to  almost  anything,  but  I  am  chiefly  celebrated  for  my 
cookery.  I  made  something  very  nice  one  hot  summer 
day-'' 

"  Take  care,  Gertrude  !"  cried  Cynthia ;  "  I  know  you." 
And  she  wrote  on  her  card :  "  Gertrude  Morgan — Queen 
of  Hearts." 

"  Oh  come,  Cynth,  that's  too  bad !"  exclaimed  Neal.  "  I 
can't  guess  her  at  all,  but  it's  because  I  am  so  taken  up 
reading  a  wonderful  book  when  I  am  very  young,  and 
making  colored  candles,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  said  you  were  a  king  ?"  said  Ger- 
trude. 

"  So  I  am  ;  a  terribly  good  sort,  too." 
At  last  Gertrude  guessed  him,  and  wrote  "  Alfred  the 
Great "  with  his  name  on  her  card. 


133 


Neal,  however,  could  not  discover  who  she  was,  not  be- 
ing as  well  posted  in  "  Mother  Goose  "  as  was  Cynthia. 

The  one  who  was  most  mysterious  was  Edith.  For  a 
long  time  no  one  could  imagine  who  she  was. 

"I  have  had  a  great  many  adventures,"  she  said,  as 
they  gathered  about  her.  "  I  have  travelled  to  places  that 
the  rest  of  you  have  never  been  to.  I  have  played  games 
with  a  duchess,  and  I've  taken  care  of  a  duchess's  baby. 
A  great  many  of  my  friends  talk  poetry.  I  have  long,  light 
hair,  and  sometimes  I'm  tall  and  sometimes  I'm  short." 

"  Never  short,  Edith,  I'm  sure,"  said  Neal.  Every  one 
laughed,  for  they  teased  Edith  about  her  stately  height. 

"  I  know  you !  I  know  you !"  cried  Cynthia,  dancing 
with  glee ;  "  you  told  too  much  that  time,"  and  she  has- 
tily scribbled  "  Alice  in  Wonderland  "  on  her  card. 

She  herself,  as  the  "  Old  woman  who  swept  the  cobwebs 
from  the  sky,"  was  easily  guessed,  much  to  her  own  cha- 
grin. 

At  last  each  one  had  written  twenty -four  names  on  his 
or  her  card,  and  they  were  given  to  Mrs.  Franklin  for  in- 
spection. Some  funny  mistakes  were  made,  and  as  they 
were  read  out  they  created  much  merriment. 

Somebody  thought  Yankee  Doodle  must  be  Paul  Re- 
vere, because  he  had  been  spoken  of  as  a  rider ;  Julius 
Caesar  and  Columbus  were  hopelessly  mixed,  both  having 
mentioned  themselves  as  crossing  the  water,  and  it  being 
impossible,  from  the  description  given,  to  distinguish  be- 
tween the  Rubicon  and  the  Atlantic  Ocean ;  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake  and  Pocahontas  were  confused,  as  they  each 
saved  a  life ;  and  every  one  mistook  the  Old  Woman  that 
lived  in  a  Shoe  for  Puss  in  Boots,  because  of  her  persistent 
talk  about  foot-wear. 


134 


Cynthia  had  made  a  greater  number  of  correct  guesses 
than  any  one,  but  as  she  was  one  of  the  hostesses  she 
could  not,  of  course,  claim  a  prize,  so  it  fell  to  Tony 
Bronson,  who  was  next  on  the  list.  Cynthia  turned  away 
to  hide  the  grimace  which  she  could  not  repress  when  the 
dear  little  clock  in  a  red-leather  case  was  given  to  him  as 
first  prize. 

Kitty  Morgan,  Gertrude's  cousin,  was  awarded  the 
"booby"  prize,  for  having  made  the  poorest  guesses — a 
dainty  little  pin,  which,  she  said,  quite  repaid  her  for  her 
stupidity ;  while  one  of  the  Brenton  girls,  whose  list  was 
next  best  to  Bronson's,  received  a  pretty  silver -framed 
calendar  as  "Consolation." 

It  made  a  merry  evening,  and  after  the  game  was  over 
they  danced  and  played  other  games  until  it  was  time 
to  go  home.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  the  last  sleigh 
drove  away. 

*'  Only  an  hour  to  midnight,"  said  Cynthia  ;  "  can't  we 
sit  up  and  see  the  old  year  out  ?  Do,  papa,  let  us !  We 
never  have,  and  it  must  be  such  fun.  We  couldn't  go  to 
sleep,  anyhow,  after  such  an  exciting  evening." 

Mr.  Franklin  consented,  and  they  sat  about  the  fire  dis- 
cussing the  success  of  the  game  and  the  girls  and  boys 
who  had  been  there,  one  or  two  of  whom  remained  for 
the  night  at  Oakleigh. 

Neal  and  Cynthia  were  alone  for  a  few  moments.  They 
had  gone  out  into  the  hall  to  see  the  hour  by  the  tall 
clock,  and  they  found  the  hands  pointing  to  ten  minutes 
of  twelve. 

"  Let  us  wait  here  for  it  to  strike,"  said  Cynthia,  going 
to  the  window. 

The  lamp  had  gone  out  in  the  hall,  and  it  was  but  dimly 


135 


lighted  from  the  room  where  the  family  were  sitting. 
Outside,  the  moon  was  shining  on  the  white  fields  and 
frozen  river.     The  old  year  was  dying  in  a  flood  of  glory. 

"I  always  feel  so  full  of  good  resolutions  on  New 
Year's  Eve,"  said  Cynthia,  in  a  low  voice;  "I  wish  I 
could  keep  them  all." 

"  So  do  I,"  returned  Neal.  "  I  am  always  turning  over 
a  new  leaf.  I  must  have  turned  over  three  volumes  of 
new  leaves  by  this  time.     But  they  don't  amount  to  much." 

"  It  is  discouraging,  isn't  it  ?  I  have  never  said  any- 
thing about  it  to  any  one  before.  It  seems  to  me  I  am 
always  breaking  my  good  resolutions." 

"  I  don't  see  how.  First  of  all,  it  doesn't  seem  as  if 
you  did  anything  that  is  wrong — a  girl  doesn't  have  much 
chance  to." 

''  Oh  yes,  she  does.  You  don't  know.  And  I  have  so 
many  faults.  There  are  my  bureau  drawers — I  can't  keep 
them  neat,  and  my  clothes  would  be  all  in  tatters  if  it  were 
not  for  Edith  and  mamma.  And,  worst  of  all,  there  is  my 
tongue." 

"  Your  tongue  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  is  such  fun  to  make  fun  of  people  and  say 
sharp  things  when  I  don't  like  them — the  kind  of  thing  I 
am  always  saying  to  that  Bronson." 

Neal  laughed,  and  then  he  sighed. 

"  You  are  putting  me  into  a  bad  corner.  If  you  think 
your  faults  are  so  tremendous,  what  must  you  think  of 
mine  ?     I'm  a  thief  and  a  coward." 

"  Neal !" 

"  Yes,  I  am.  I  am  a  thief  because  I  don't  pay  that 
money.  I  had  no  business  to  borrow  it  in  the  first  place, 
and  I  could  save  it  out  of  my  allowance  if  I  w^ould  take 


136 


the  trouble,  but  I  am  too  lazy  ;  and  I  am  such  a  coward  I 
won't  ask  Hessie  for  it,  because  I  am  ashamed  to  have 
your  father  know  it.     It's  all  a  nasty  business,  anyway." 

He  looked  moodily  out  on  the  snow,  drumming  his 
fingers  on  the  window-pane. 

"  Neal,"  said  Cynthia,  softly  touching  his  arm  with  her 
hand  as  she  spoke,  "  let's  turn  over  one  more  new  leaf. 
I  will  look  out  for  my  tongue  and  my  bureau  drawers,  and 
you  will  tell  mamma  everything  and  start  fresh.  Will 
you,  Neal  ?     Promise  !" 

Before  he  answered  the  clock  began  to  strike. 

"  Happy  New  Year  !  Happy  New  Year  !"  was  heard 
from  the  parlor.  *' Neal  and  Cynthia,  where  are  you? 
Come  in  here,  that  we  may  all  be  together  when  the  clock 
stops  striking." 

So  the  old  year  died,  and  Neal  had  not  given  the  re- 
quired promise. 

One  day,  shortly  before  he  returned  to  St.  Asaph's,  he 
said  to  his  sister  : 

■"  Hessie,  if  I  had  been  of  age  I  think  I  would  have 
tried  to  break  that  will  of  grandmother's." 

"  Oh,  Neal  dear,  don't  say  that  1     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Well,  it  isn't  that  I  mind  your  having  the  money  ;  you 
have  always  been  a  brick  about  keeping  me  supplied ;  but 
the  trouble  is,  I  need  more  than  you  give  me." 

"  Neal,  I  am  afraid  you  are  spending  too  much,"  said 
Mrs.  Franklin,  looking  at  him  anxiously.  "  Are  you  in  debt 
again?  You  know  I  would  love  to  give  you  all  I  have, 
but  your  guardians  and  the  trustees  of  the  estate  and 
John  all  think  that  you  have  a  very  large  allowance  for  a 
school-boy,  and  it  would  not  be  a  good  plan  to  let  you 
have  any  more." 


137 


"  Bother  them  all !"  exclaimed  Neal,  seizing  the  poker 
and  giving  the  fire  an  angry  thrust.  A  shower  of  sparks 
flew  out,  but  he  let  one  burn  a  hole  in  the  rug  without 
noticing.  "  I'm  tired  of  being  tied  to  your  apron-string. 
I've  a  good  mind  to  cut  loose  altogether." 

*'  Don't  say  that !"  cried  Mrs.  Franklin,  in  distress,  going 
to  him  and  putting  her  arm  through  his.  He  was  taller 
than  she,  and  she  had  to  look  up  at  him. 

"  If  it  were  only  you,  it  would  be  different,"  continued 
her  brother  ;  "  but  you  see  you're  married  now,  and  every- 
thing is  changed." 

"  But  John  is  fond  of  you,  Neal ;  I  know  he  is.  But  he 
knows  all  about  boys,  and  his  advice  is  good.  Would — 
would  five  dollars  help  you  ?" 

"  You're  a  good  little  soul,  Hessie,"  said  Neal,  looking 
down  at  her  affectionately,  his  momentary  ill-humor  pass- 
ing, "  and  I  suppose  it  is  not  your  fault  if  you  can't  give 
me  any  more.  No,  thank  you  ;  I  won't  take  the  fiver. 
Don't  worry  about  me.  Here  comes  Jack  in  the  cutter; 
we're  going  to  the  village."     And  in  a  moment  he  was  off. 

The  next  day  he  went  back  to  St.  Asaph's. 

The  winter  passed  quickly  after  Christmas  had  come 
and  gone,  and  all  had  settled  down  again  to  the  regular 
routine  of  work.  Mrs.  Franklin  could  not  help  feeling 
anxious  about  Neal.  She  confided  her  fears  to  her  hus- 
band, but  he  made  light  of  them. 

"The  boy  only  wanted  more  spending-money,  Hester. 
He  is  very  extravagant,  and  you  will  be  doing  very  wrong- 
ly if  you  supply  him  Avith  more  money.  His  allowance  is 
too  large,  at  any  rate,  for  a  boy  of  his  age.  Jack  gets 
along  perfectly  well  with  just  one-fifth  the  amount." 

"  But  Jack  is  different." 


138 


"  Very  different,  and  Neal  ongLt  to  be  different,  too. 
You  paid  his  debts  in  tlie  fall,  which  were  enormous  for  a 
school-boy,  and  then  he  was  free  to  start  afresh.  You  vrill 
never  cure  him  of  extravagance  if  you  keep  him  supplied 
with  all  the  money  he  wants." 

Mrs.  Franklin  was  forced  to  acknowledge  the  truth  of 
ber  husband's  remarks.  She  said  no  more,  though  she 
was  none  the  less  worried. 

Cynthia  noticed  that  her  step-mother  was  not  as  light- 
hearted  as  formerly.  They  w'ere  going  in  to  Boston  one 
Saturday  morning  to  do  some  shopping  together.  Cynthia 
had  decided  to  buy  a  watch  with  Aunt  Betsey's  money, 
and  she  had  brought  the  gold  pieces  with  her. 

"  I  am  so  afraid  of  losing  them  I  don't  know  what  to 
do,"  she  said.  "  Fifty  dollars  is  so  enormous,  isn't  it  ? 
Please  take  it  in  your  bag,  mamma  ;  I  know  I  shall  lose  it." 

Mrs.  Franklin  smiled  absently,  and  when  she  had  put 
away  the  money  she  looked  out  of  the  window  again. 

"Mamma,"  said  Cynthia,  leaning  towards  her,  "you 
are  worried  about  something,  aren't  you  ?  Tell  me,  is  it 
Neal  ?" 

Mrs.  Franklin  looked  startled. 

"  I  did  not  know  I  had  such  a  tell-tale  face,"  she  said  ; 
"  yes,  you  have  guessed  it,  Cynthia.  I  cannot  help  feel- 
ing worried  about  him.  I  have  not  heard  from  him  for 
some  time,  and  that  makes  me  uneasy.  But  it  is  just 
fancy,  and  will  pass  off.  Probably  there  will  be  a  letter 
from  him  to-night." 

Cynthia  also  had  remarked  on  Neal's  silence,  and  this 
confirmed  her  fears.  She  did  not  say  anything  more  to 
Mrs.  Franklin,  however,  for  Neal  had  again  made  her  prom- 
ise to  repeat  nothing  he  had  told  her. 


139 


"  I'll  never  confide  in  you  again  if  you  tell,"  he  had  said ; 
so,  of  course,  Cynthia  had  promised. 

Her  mind  was  busy  during*  the  remainder  of  the  trip  to 
Boston,  and  when  the  train  glided  into  the  station  she  had 
determined  to  put  her  thoughts  into  action. 

"  We  will  go  to  Shreve's  and  then  to  Bigelow's  to  look 
at  watches,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin,  as  they  walked  across  the 
Common.  "  We  had  better  look  at  both  places  before  you 
decide." 

"  I  have  changed  my  mind,  mamma.  I  don't  think  I 
will  buy  a  watch." 

"  Why,  Cynthia  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Franklin,  almost  stop- 
ping short  in  her  surprise  ;  "  you  want  one  so  much  1" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  do — at  least,  not  just  now.  Let 
us  just  go  buy  the  clothes,  and  I'll  keep  Aunt  Betsey's 
money  a  little  longer." 

She  would  give  no  further  explanation,  and  her  mother 
could  not  induce  her  even  to  glance  at  the  watches  in 
Shreve's  window.  No ;  she  had  decided  that  she  did  not 
need  one. 

When  they  reached  home  she  took  the  money  and  went 
to  her  own  room.  She  was  standing  by  the  window,  care- 
fully packing  the  coins  in  a  little  box  with  cotton,  and 
about  to  do  it  up  for  the  mail — for  she  knew  no  better 
wav  of  sending  the  money — when  she  heard  the  sound  of 
wheels  on  the  drive. 

Looking  out,  she  saw  one  of  the  depot  carriages  ap- 
proaching, and  in  the  vehicle  was  Neal  liimself. 

Full  of  apprehension,  dreading  she  knew  not  what,  Cyn- 
thia dropped  the  box  of  money  and  flew  down-stairs. 

It  was  not  vacation,  it  was  the  middle  of  the  school-term. 

Why  had  Neal  come  home  ? 


CHAPTER  XII 

"  Why  has  lie  come  home  ?" 

This  was  the  question  on  the  lips  of  each  one  of  the 
family  when  they  heard  of  Neal's  arrival. 

It  was  soon  answered.     He  had  been  suspended. 

He  would  give  little  explanation ;  he  merely  asserted 
that  he  was  innocent  of  that  of  which  he  was  accused. 
Some  of  the  boys,  the  most  unmanageable  at  St.  Asaph's, 
had  plotted  to  do  some  mischief.  Neal,  being  more  or 
less  intimate  with  the  set,  was  asked  to  join  in  the  plot, 
but  refused.  He  was  with  the  boys,  however,  up  to  the 
moment  of  their  putting  it  into  execution.  Afterwards, 
circumstances  pointed  to  his  having  been  concerned  in  it, 
and  his  known  intimacy  with  these  very  boys  condemned 
him. 

There  was  but  one  person  who  could  prove  absolutely 
that  he  had  not  been  with  the  culprits  that  night,  and 
that  person  held  his  peace. 

Of  course  Cynthia  rightly  suspected  that  it  was  Bronson. 

A  letter  came  from  the  head -master  of  the  school, 
stating  the  facts  as  they  appeared  to  him,  and  announc- 
ing with  regret  that  he  had  been  obliged  to  suspend  Neal 
Gordon  for  the  remainder  of  the  term. 

It  was  an  unfortunate  affair  altogether.  Neal  was 
moody  and  low-spirited,  and  he  was  deeply  offended  that 
his  story  was  not  universally  believed,  for  the  household 
was  divided  in  resfard  to  it. 


141 


Jack  and  Cynthia  stoutly  maintained  his  innocence,  Mr. 
Franklin  and  Edith  looked  at  the  worst  side  of  it,  while 
Mrs.  Franklin  was  undecided  in  her  opinion. 

She  wanted  to  believe  her  brother's  word,  she  did  be- 
lieve it,  and  yet  all  the  proven  facts  were  so  hopelessly 
against  him.  The  other  boys  that  had  been  suspended 
were  his  friends.  Neal  had  been  reproved  before  for 
mischief  that  he  had  been  in  with  them.  It  was  one  of 
those  sad  cases  when  a  man's  past  record  counts  against 
him,  no  matter  how  innocent  he  may  be  of  the  present 
offence.  But  Hester  could  not  believe  that  her  brother 
would  lie  to  her. 

One  morning  Edith  drove  her  father  to  the  train.  Not 
a  vestige  of  snow  was  left  near  the  road ;  only  a  patch  or 
two  on  the  hills,  and  even  that  was  rapidly  disappearing 
in  the  spring  sunshine  which  every  day  grew  warmer. 

"  Have  you  heard  much  about  St.  Asaph's  from  any 
one  but  Neal  ?"  asked  Mr.  Franklin,  abruptly.  "  Doesn't 
that  cousin  of  the  Morgans'  go  there  ?" 

"  Do  you  mean  Tom,  papa  ?  Yes,  he  does,  and  Tony 
Bronson,  too,  who  stays  at  the  Morgans'  occasionally. 
Don't  you  know  ?    He  was  at  our  New  Year's  Eve  party." 

"  I  think  I  remember.  Did  you  ever  hear  either  of 
them  speak  of  Neal,  or  discuss  him  in  any  way  ?" 

Edith  hesitated. 

"  Tom  Morgan  never  did,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  And  the  other  fellow  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  said  something.  Keally,  papa,  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  ask  me." 

"  What  nonsense  !  Of  course  it  is  your  duty  to  tell 
me,  Edith.  It  is  right  that  I  should  know  how  Neal 
stands  with  his  class.     What  did  the  boy  say  ?" 


142 


*<■  He  spoke  as  if  Neal  were  in  some  scrape,  and  lie 
wished  that  he  could  help  him  out." 

"  He  is  a  friend  of  NeaPs,  then  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  He  spoke  very  nicely  of  him  and 
really  seemed  to  want  to  help  him,  but  Cynthia  didn't 
believe  that  when  I  told  her.  She  seemed  to  think  he 
was  an  enemy  of  Neal's.  But  then  Cynthia  can't  bear 
him,  you  know.  She  took  one  of  her  tremendous  preju- 
dices against  Tony  Bronson,  the  way  she  often  does,  and 
she  wouldn't  believe  there  was  a  bit  of  good  in  him." 

"  But  you  liked  him  ?" 

*'  Yes,  very  much.  I  think  he  is  conceited,  but  then 
so  many  boys  are  that.  As  far  as  I  could  see  he  is  a  very 
nice  fellow  and  the  Morgans  like  him  ever  so  much.  The 
only  people  that  I  know  of  who  don't  like  him  are  Jack 
and  Cynthia  and  Neal." 

"  I  don't  believe  there  is  much  doubt  that  Neal  has 
been  very  wild  all  the  time  he  has  been  at  St.  Asaph's," 
observed  Mr.  Franklin ;  "  this  only  goes  to  prove  it. 
Bronson  was  not  in  that  set,  evidently,  as  he  was  not  one 
of  those  who  were  suspended,  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  is 
a  very  good  sort  of  fellow.  It  is  a  pity  Neal  doesn't  see 
more  of  him." 

They  drew  up  at  the  post-office,  and  Mr.  Franklin  went 
in  to  get  the  letters.  He  came  out  with  quite  a  budget, 
and  stood  at  the  carriage  looking  hastily  over  them. 

"  All  of  these  are  to  go  home,"  he  said,  giving  a  num- 
ber to  Edith ;  "  here  is  one  for  me  with  the  St.  Asaph's 
post-mark.     I  will  see  what  it  is." 

He  tore  it  open  and  glanced  at  the  signature.  Then  he 
looked  up  quickly. 

"  What  was  that  Bronson  fellow's  name,  Edith  ?" 


143 


"  Tony." 

"Then  this  is  from  him.  Odd  we  should  just  have 
been  talking  about  him.     Humph  !" 

Mr.  Franklin's  face  grew  grave,  then  angry,  as  he  read 
the  letter. 

"That  boy  will  come  to  no  good  end,"  he  muttered. 
"  I  don't  know  what  we  arc  going  to  do  with  him." 

Edith  watched  him  curiously.  She  wished  that  her  fa- 
ther would  give  her  the  letter  to  read,  but  he  did  not. 
People  were  hurrying  by  to  the  station,  which  was  but  a 
few  steps  from  the  post-office. 

"  You  will  miss  your  train,  Franklin,"  said  some  one, 
tapping  him  on  the  shoulder. 

Mr.  Franklin  glanced  at  the  clock  in  the  station  tower, 
found  that  he  had  but  half  a  minute,  and  with  a  hasty 
good-bye  to  Edith,  and  strict  injunctions  not  to  mention 
Bronson's  letter  at  home,  he  ran  for  his  train,  thrusting 
the  mysterious  note  into  his  pocket  as  he  went. 

Edith  did  the  errands  and  drove  home  again,  after  a 
brief  call  upon  Gertrude  Morgan,  who  was  full  of  curiosity 
about  Neal's  return. 

"  I  always  knew  he  was  pretty  gay,"  she  said.  "  Of 
course  Tom  and  Tony  Bronson  wouldn't  say  much — boys 
never  do,  you  know ;  but  I  gathered  from  certain  things 
that  Neal  was — well,  rather  sporty,  to  say  the  least." 

Edith  drove  homeward  rather  slowly.  She  was  very 
sorry  about  it  all :  sorry  for  Neal  himself,  whom  she  liked, 
despite  the  fact  that  he  was  a  Gordon ;  sorry  for  her  step- 
mother, whom  she  told  herself  she  disliked ;  and  yet  Mrs. 
Franklin's  unvarying  kindness  and  sweet  temper  had  not 
been  without  good  results.  Edith  had  softened  greatly 
towards  her,  more  than  she  herself  was  aware  of.     She 


144 


still  continued  to  assure  herself  that  it  was  an  unfortunate 
day  for  them  when  the  Gordons  came,  and  she  worked 
herself  into  a  temper  when  she  thought  of  the  added  wor- 
riment  it  gave  her  father  to  have  Neal  behave  as  he  had 
done. 

"  Papa  looked  so  anxious  this  morning  when  he  read 
that  letter,"  she  said  to  herself ;  "  it  is  too  bad.  I  do 
wonder  what  was  in  it,  and  from  Tony  Bronson,  too ! 
What  would  Gertrude  have  said  if  I  had  told  her  ?" 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Franklin  was  reading  his  letter 
again. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Franklin  [it  ran], — It  is  with  great 
regret  that  I  am  obliged  to  call  a  little  matter  to  your  atten- 
tion. I  had  hoped  that  it  would  not  be  necessary.  Your 
brother-in-law,  Neal  Gordon,  owes  me  a  small  amount,  fifty 
dollars,  in  fact,  and  1  am  at  present  really  in  need  of  the 
money.  I  have  waited  for  it  a  good  while,  nearly  a  year, 
and  there  are  one  or  two  bills  that  I  am  expected  to  pay 
out  of  my  allowance,  which  I  am  unable  to  do  until  Gor- 
don pays  me. 

"  Of  course,  I  dislike  very  much  to  dun  him  for  it  when 
he  is  in  disgrace,  but  really  I  see  no  other  way  out  of  the 
difficulty  than  to  ask  you  if  you  will  kindly  forward  a 
check  to  my  order. 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"  Anthony  Bkonson. 

"  St.  Asaph's,  April  2d." 

This  letter  had  cost  the  writer  much  thought.  He  had 
written  several  copies  before  he  was  altogether  satisfied, 
but  at  last  the  result  pleased  him. 


145 


"  I  call  it  rather  neat,"  lie  said,  as  he  folded  it  carefully 
and  addressed  the  envelope  with  an  extra  flourish.  "  This 
■will  bring  the  roof  down  on  our  fine  high -and -mighty 
Mr.  Gordon,  if  nothing  else  does.  I  fancy  that  brother- 
in-law  of  his  has  a  nice  little  temper  of  his  own,  and  it 
will  be  so  pleasant  for  Gordie  to  be  nagged  by  a  brother- 
in-law  !" 

When  Edith  got  back  to  Oakleigh  the  morning  that 
Bronson's  note  was  received,  she  found  wild  excitement 
raging,  which,  for  a  time,  made  her  forget  the  letter. 

Some  of  the  Leghorn  pullets,  which,  unfortunately,  could 
fly  high,  had  escaped  from  the  yard,  notwithstanding  the 
wire  netting  which  enclosed  them,  and  had  been  having  a 
fine  time  scratching  and  pecking  in  entirely  new  hunting 
grounds,  when  Bob  happened  along. 

Here  was  his  chance.  For  many  months  he  had  been 
waiting  for  this  very  moment.  AVhat  was  the  use  of  be- 
ing a  sporting  dog,  if  he  could  not  now  and  then  indulge 
his  hunting  proclivities?  His  master  had  gone  on  the 
river  and  left  him  at  home — his  master  did  not  treat  hira 
well,  nowadays.  Bob  felt  neglected.  He  would  have  one 
good  time. 

He  waited  his  opportunity,  and  when  it  came  he  made 
the  most  of  it.  A  fine  fat  hen,  peacefully  pecking  a 
worm,  found  the  tables  suddenly  turned.  Instead  of  the 
worm  being  in  her  mouth,  she  found  herself  in  the  mouth 
of  the  horrible  black  object  which  she  had  often  seen 
peering  greedily  at  her  through  the  fence.  Oh,  that  she 
had  never  flown  over  that  fence  !  She  gave  one  despair- 
ing "cluck"  as  she  was  borne  madly  through  the  air, 
and  then  was  silent  forever. 

10 


146 


Janet  and  Willy,  playing  near,  heard  tlie  noise  and  fol- 
lowed in  pursuit,  calling  Cynthia  as  they  did  so,  who,  see- 
ing what  w^as  the  matter,  flew  from  the  house,  dog-whip  in 
hand.     The  boys  were  both  on  the  river. 

For  a  time  the  chase  was  hopeless.  Bob  had  not  wait- 
ed all  these  months  for  nothing;  he  had  no  intention 
of  dropping  the  prize  at  the  first  command.  Round  and 
round  he  tore,  leading  his  pursuers  a  pretty  dance,  through 
orchard  and  field,  over  the  lawn  and  through  the  currant- 
bushes.  Cynthia  fell  at  this  particular  point  with  Janet 
and  Willy  on  top  of  her,  but  they  picked  themselves  up 
and  started  again. 

At  last  Mrs.  Franklin,  coming  out,  headed  Bob  off,  and 
Cynthia  grasped  his  collar. 

''  Bad  dog !"  she  cried.  "  Neal  told  me  I  was  to  punish 
you,  and  I  mean  to  do  it." 

She  cut  him  with  the  short  whip,  but  it  was  of  no  avail. 
Bob  had  dropped  the  chicken,  and,  wild  with  excitement, 
sprang  for  her  hand.  She  only  succeeded  in  lashing  her- 
self with  the  whip. 

"  It's  no  use,"  she  said,  at  last ;  "I've  got  to  punish  him 
some  other  way.  The  boys  won't  be  home  for  eVer  so  long, 
and  it  won't  do  to  wait." 

"  I  have  always  heard  the  only  way  of  curing  a  dog  of 
killing  hens  was  to  tie  one  around  his  neck,"  said  Mrs. 
Franklin,  doubtfully.  "Perhaps  it  had  better  be  done. 
We  will  call  one  of  the  men." 

"  No,  I  will  do  it  all,"  said  Cynthia ;  "  it's  not  a  very 
nice  piece  of  work,  but  I'll  do  it." 

Cord  was  brought,  and  she  finally  succeeded  in  attaching 
the  defunct  hen  to  Bob's  collar.  Poor  Bob  !  His  joy  had 
been  quickly  turned  to  mourning.      And  now  this  stern 


/ 


"poor  bob!   his  joy  had  been  qcickly  turned  to  mourning' 


147 


Cynthia — she  who  had  hitherto  been  apparently  so  affably 
disposed  towards  him — fastened  him  to  the  hitching-post, 
and  came  with  a  horrid  horsewhip  to  chastise  him  !  Bob 
never  forgot  that  morning.  He  always  thought  of  Cynthia 
with  more  respect  after  that. 

When  Neal  came  home  he  highly  approved  of  all  the 
proceedings  except  the  horsewhip. 

"  Couldn't  you  do  it  with  his  own  whip  ?"  he  asked. 
*'  It  places  a  dog  at  a  mean  disadvantage  to  tie  him  up  and 
then  whip  him.     It  is  so  lowering  to  his  dignity." 

"  One  of  us  had  to  be  at  a  disadvantage,"  said  Cynthia, 
indignantly,  "  and  I  should  think  it  was  better  for  Bob  to 
be  at  it  than  for  me.  And  as  for  his  dignity,  I  think  it 
ought  to  be  lowered." 

To  which  wise  remark  Neal  was  forced  to  agree. 

Jack  was  much  disgusted  at  losing  one  of  his  best  hens. 
What  with  the  fox  last  winter,  and  a  neighbor's  dog  that 
had  killed  seven,  and  a  peculiar  disease  which  had  taken 
off  fifty,  luck  seemed  to  be  against  the  poultry  business. 
But,  undiscouraged.  Jack  had  refilled  the  machine  and  was 
awaiting  results.  Some  of  last  year's  hens  had  begun  to 
lay,  and  he  was  sending  eggs  to  the  Boston  markets. 
There  were  actually  a  few  more  figures  on  the  page  for  re- 
ceipts. 

Bob's  misdemeanor  temporarily  diverted  the  minds  of 
the  family  from  the  trouble  about  Neal,  but  Mr.  Franklin's 
return  that  night  brought  up  the  subject  again  to  some  of 
them. 

He  told  his  wife  that  he  wished  to  speak  with  her,  and 
together  they  went  into  the  library  and  shut  the  door.  He 
laid  two  letters  before  her  on  the  table — the  one  he  had  re- 
ceived that  morning  from  Bronson,  and  a  second  one  from 


148 


the  same  source,  which  had  come  by  the  evening  mail.    The 
latter  was  very  brief : 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Franklin,  — The  very  day  that  I  sent 
my  letter  to  you  I  received  a  money-order  from  Gordon 
for  the  amount  he  owed  me. 

"Regretting  very  much  that  I  should  have  troubled  you, 
I  have  the  honor  to  be 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"Anthony  Bronson." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?"  asked  Mr.  Franklin,  when  his 
wife  had  finished  reading  the  letters. 

"  I  cannot  imagine,"  said  she,  looking  up,  completely 
mystified. 

"  Did  you  lend  him  the  money  ?" 

"  No,  certainly  not.  I  should  have  told  you,  John,  if  I 
had,"  she  added,  reproachfully. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
"  but  I  could  not  account  for  it  in  any  other  way.  It  is 
extraordinary." 

"  Suppose  we  send  for  Neal  and  ask  him  about  it." 

When  Neal  came  he  was  given  the  two  letters  to  read. 
He  did  so,  and  laid  them  down  without  a  word. 

"  Well,  what  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself  ?"  asked 
his  brother-in-law,  impatiently. 

"  Nothing." 

"  Neal,  dear,  you  must  explain,"  said  Hester. 

"  Why  should  I  explain  ?  I  paid  the  debt.  It  doesn't 
make  any  difference  to  either  of  you  how  I  did  it." 

"It  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Franklin,  who  was  rapidly  growing  angry.     "  In  the  first 


149 


place,  liow  did  you  come  to  be  owing  fifty  dollars  so  soon 
after  the  other  debt  was  paid  ?  What  did  you  do  with  the 
first  fifty  your  sister  gave  you  in  the  fall  ?" 

"  Spent  it." 

"  Neal !"  cried  Hester.  "  Didn't  you  pay  your  debts 
then  ?     Why  didn't  you  ?" 

He  said  nothing. 

"  It  is  an  abominable  affair  altogether,"  said  Mr.  Frank- 
lin. "  You  were  in  debt,  which  you  had  no  business  to  be. 
You  obtained  money  from  Hester  to  pay  the  debt,  and 
then,  according  to  your  own  words,  you  spent  it  otherwise. 
You  get  into  a  bad  scrape  and  are  suspended.  And  now 
you  obtain  money  in  some  peculiar  way,  and  refuse  to  ex- 
plain how." 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  Mr.  Franklin,"  said  Neal,  who  was 
in  a  towering  rage  by  this  time.  "  You  go  a  little  too  far. 
I  don't  consider  that  it  is  at  all  necessary  for  me  to  explain 
to  you,  but  I  am  willing  to  do  it  on  Hessie's  account.  I 
did  not  say  that  I  spent  her  money  otherwise.  I  merely 
said  that  I  spent  it,  which  was  perfectly  true.  I  spent  it 
paying  half  my  debt.  I  owed  a  hundred  dollars  at  that 
time,  instead  of  fifty  as  I  told  you.  I  paid  half  then,  and 
the  rest  I  paid  a  few  days  ago,  and  it  doesn't  make  any 
difference  to  you  or  any  one  else  how  I  got  the  money. 
As  for  the  scrape,  I  was  not  in  it.  You  can  believe  my 
word  or  not,  as  you  like.  I've  said  all  I  am  going  to  say, 
and  if  you  don't  mind  I'll  leave  you.  I've  had  enough  of 
this." 

He  stalked  out  of  the  library,  and  went  up  to  his  own 
room.     No  one  saw  him  again  that  evening. 

"You  are  too  hard  on  him,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin. 
"  Hard  on  him  !     It  would  have  been  better  for  the  boy 


150 


if  some  one  had  begun  earlier  to  be  hard  on  him.  It  is 
the  most  extraordinary  thing  where  he  got  that  money." 

Nothing  was  said  to  the  others  about  it  all.  They 
knew  that  Neal'was  in  fresh  disgrace,  but  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Franklin  withheld  the  details  at  present.  Neal  himself 
was  dumb.  Not  even  to  his  only  confidante,  Cynthia,  did 
he  unburden  himself.  He  was  too  angry  with  her  father  to 
trust  himself  to  speak  to  her  on  the  subject,  and  his  silence 
made  Cynthia  miserable. 

Neal  did  not  acknowledge  for  a  moment  that  the  stand 
taken  by  Mr.  Franklin  was  perfectly  justifiable  and  natural, 
and  he  allowed  his  resentment  to  burn  furiously,  making 
no  effort  to  overcome  it. 

His  mistake  from  the  beginning  had  been  concealment, 
but  this  he  had  yet  to  realize.  He  fancied  that  it  would 
be  lowering  to  his  pride  to  make  any  explanation  what- 
ever. 

Let  them  think  what  they  liked,  he  did  not  care,  he  said 
to  himself  again  and  again. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

During  these  early  months  of  the  year  a  change  had 
come  over  Miss  Betsey  Trinkett's  life.  Silas  Green  had 
died. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Franklin  went  to  Wayborough  for  the  fu- 
neral, and  found  Miss  Betsey  quite  broken. 

"  To  think  that  the  day  was  fixed  at  last,"  she  said,  "  and 
he  died  only  the  week  before.  Well,  well,  it  does  seem 
passing  queer,  after  all  these  years.  It  doesn't  do  to  put 
a  thing  off  too  long.  And  yet,  perhaps,  it's  all  for  the 
best,  for  if  I'd  given  up  and  gone  down  there  to  live,  I 
should  have  had  nothing  now  to  look  at  but  the  Soldiers' 
Monument,  and  I'd  have  felt  real  lonesome  without  the 
Merrimac." 

And  with  this  consolation  the  old  lady  took  up  her  life 
again,  and  found  it  very  much  the  same  thing  it  had  been 
before,  with  the  exception  of  Sunday  night.  On  that  even- 
ing she  would  not  have  the  lamps  lighted,  but  would  sit 
in  her  favorite  window  and  look  out  across  the  valley  at 
her  beloved  view,  her  eyes  turned  in  that  direction  long 
after  it  became  too  dark  to  see. 

Sometimes  then  she  regretted  that  she  had  not  yielded 
to  Silas's  arguments,  and  gone  to  live  in  the  house  in  the 
village.  It  would  have  pleased  him.  And  it  seemed  very 
lonely  Sunday  night  without  Silas. 

After  a  while — it  was  a  day  or  two  after  the  communi- 
cations came  from  Bronson — Mr.  Franklin  received  a  letter 


153 


from  his  aunt.  She  was  pretty  well,  but  felt  as  if  she  had 
not  heard  from  them  for  a  long  time.  She  would  send 
Willy's  present  soon.  Had  Janet's  been  placed  in  the  sav- 
inofs-bank?  She  had  not  heard  from  Janet  since  she  sent 
it.     Why  did  not  the  child  write  ? 

As  nothing  had  come  to  Janet  from  Miss  Trinkett,  this 
caused  some  surprise. 

"  I  am  afraid  Aunt  Betsey  has  trusted  to  government 
once  too  often,"  said  Mr.  Franklin,  "  for  evidently  the 
package  has  gone  astray.  I  wonder  what  was  there  be- 
sides the  gold  dollars." 

"  Something  to  make  it  an  odd-looking  package,  you 
may  be  sure,  papa,"  said  Cynthia. 

Mr.  Franklin  inquired  of  the  postmaster.  That  person- 
age was  a  nervous  little  man,  much  harassed  with  the  re- 
sponsibilities and  duties  of  his  position. 

"  Something  lost,  Mr.  Franklin  ?  Now  that's  very 
strange.  I  can't  think  it's  lost.  Yes,  I  remember  a  num- 
ber of  odd-looking  packages  that  have  come  for  your  fam- 
ily from  Wayborough.  There  may  have  been  one  lately, 
though  T  can't  say  for  sure.  Let  me  see.  I  remember 
young  Gordon  coming  for  the  mail  one  day,  and  getting — 
no,  he  didn't  get  one,  he  sent  it — a  money-order.  Hap- 
pen to  remember  it  because  he  paid  for  it  in  gold.  That's 
all  I  can  safely  say  about  anything,  Mr.  Franklin.  There 
may  have  been  a  package — what  did  you  say,  Miss? 
Stamps  and  postal-cards?     Yes,  yes." 

And  the  busy  little  man  turned  to  the  next  comer. 

Mr.  Franklin  left  the  ofRce  with  a  thoughtful  face.  He 
was  a  very  impulsive  man,  too  apt  to  say  the  first  thing 
that  occurred  to  him,  without  regard  to  consequences. 
Therefore,  when  he  got  into  the  carriage  and,  taking  the 


153 


reins  from  Edith,  drove  hurriedly  out  High  Street  towards 
Oakleigh,  he  exclaimed: 

"  I  am  almost  inclined  to  believe  that  Neal  knows  more 
about  Aunt  Betsey's  present  to  Janet  than  any  of  us." 

Janet,  who  was  perched  on  the  back  seat,  heard  her 
own  name  mentioned,  and  proceeded  to  listen  attentively. 
Both  her  father  and  sister  forgot  that  she  was  there,  and 
she  took  especial  pains  not  to  remind  them  of  her  pres- 
ence. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  papa  ?"  asked  Edith. 

"  I  think  it  is  a  remarkable  coincidence,  if  nothing^  more. 
I  had  a  letter  the  other  day  from  young  Bronson,  stating 
that  Neal  owed  him  fifty  dollars.  The  same  night  I  had 
another  letter  from  him,  saying  that  he  had  received  a 
money-order  from  Neal  for  the  amount.  We  questioned 
Neal,  and  he  would  give  no  satisfactory  answer  as  to 
where  he  got  the  money.  The  postmaster  tells  me  that 
Neal  paid  for  his  money-order  in  gold.  Aunt  Betsey's 
present  to  Janet  is  missing  ;  we  all  know  that  Aunt  Bet- 
sey always  sends  gold.  The  postmaster  seems  to  think 
that  a  package  may  have  come  through  the  office  to  us, 
though  he  is  not  absolutely  certain  of  it.  What  more  nat- 
ural than  to  suppose  that  the  gold  Neal  had  was  meant 
for  Janet  ?  He  may  have  called  for  the  mail  that  day,  rec- 
ognized the  package  from  Aunt  Betsey,  and  the  tempta- 
tion was  too  much  for  him." 

"  Oh,  papa !"  cried  Edith,  much  shocked,  "  I  can't  be- 
lieve that  Neal  would  do  a  thing  like  that." 

"  I  can't  either,"  said  her  father,  cutting  the  air  with 
his  whip  in  his  impatience,  and  making  his  horse  prance 
madly — "I  can't  either,  and  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to  ! 
Let  us  forget  that  I  said  it,  Edith.     Don't  think  of  it  again, 


154 


and  on  no  account  repeat  what  I  said.  The  idea  came 
into  my  head,  and  I  spoke  without  thinking.  I  wouldn't 
have  Hester  know  it  for  the  world.  But  it  is  strange, 
isn't  it,  that  Neal  paid  gold  for  his  money-order.  Where 
did  he  get  it?" 

"  It  is  strange,  papa,  but  indeed  I  think  Neal  is  honest. 
I  am  sure — oh,  I  am  very  sure — that  it  couldn't  have  been 
Janet's." 

"  Then  where  did  he  get  it?"  repeated  Mr.  Franklin,  with 
another  cut  of  his  whip. 

*'  Perhaps  Mrs.  Franklin  gave  it  to  him." 

"  Of  course  she  didn't,"  exclaimed  her  father,  with  irri- 
tation, "  and  I  wish  you  would  oblige  me,  Edith,  by  not 
calling  my  wife  '  Mrs.  Franklin.'  If  you  do  not  choose  to 
speak  of  her  as  the  rest  of  my  children  do,  you  can  at 
least  call  her  '  Hester.'    You  annoy  me  beyond  measure." 

Edith  turned  very  white  as  she  said : 

"  I  am  sorry,  papa.  Then  I  will  call  her  nothing.  I 
can't  possibly  say  *  mamma '  to  her,  and  I  don't  feel  like 
speaking  to  her  by  her  first  name." 

"  What  nonsense  it  all  is,"  said  Mr.  Franklin.  "  I  am 
thoroughly  disappointed  in  you,  Edith." 

*'  I  don't  know  why  you  should  be,  papa.  I  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  If  the  Gordons  had  not  come  here  this 
would  never  have  happened.  The  money  would  not  be 
missing,  you  wouldn't  have  had  the  letters  from  Tony 
Bronson,  and  I — oh,  I  would  have  been  so  much  happier  I" 

"  If  you  are  not  happy,  it  is  entirely  your  own  fault," 
said  her  father,  sternly.  "  Now  let  me  hear  no  more  of 
these  absurd  notions  of  yours.  I  have  too  much  to  think 
of  that  is  of  more  importance." 

Edith  wanted  to  cry,  but  she  controlled  herself.     She 


155 

was  to  drive  with  her  father  over  to  Upper  Falls,  where 
he  had  to  attend  to  some  business,  and  now  she  had  made 
him  seriously  angry,  she  knew.  She  swallowed  the  lumps 
that  rose  in  her  throat,  and  presently  she  managed  to 
speak  on  some  indifferent  subject ;  but  her  father  made 
no  reply,  and  they  soon  turned  in  at  Oakleigh  gates. 
Janet,  the  small,  quiet  person  on  the  back  seat,  could 
scarcely  wait  to  get  home.     She  must  find  Neal  at  once. 

But  Neal  was  not  easily  to  be  found.  She  trotted  up 
to  his  room,  but  he  was  not  there.  She  went  to  the  cellar 
stairs  and  called,  but  Neal  had  neglected  his  duties  of  late 
as  partner  in  the  poultry  business ;  in  fact,  he  had  retired 
altogether,  and  the  eggs  reposed  there  alone.  Janet  was 
not  allowed  to  descend  the  stairs  because  of  her  misde- 
meanors last  year. 

She  went  to  the  workshop,  but  all  was  quiet.  Look- 
ing out  from  the  upper  window,  however,  she  spied  Bob 
in  the  pasture ;  perhaps  Neal  was  with  him.  She  went 
down  and  unfastened  the  big  gate  that  opened  into  the 
barn-yard. 

Country  child  though  she  was,  Janet  was  sorely  afraid 
of  venturing  through  the  barn-yard  alone.  Were  there 
any  pigs  there?  Yes,  there  were  a  great  many.  Janet 
detested  pigs,  ugly  grunting  creatures !  And  there  were 
some  cows  also,  and  she  had  on  her  red  jacket.  She 
promptly  laid  it  aside  and  made  a  bold  rush  through  the 
yard. 

On  the  whole,  she  rather  enjoyed  the  excitement.  She 
was  alone,  for  Willy  had  gone  to  Boston  with  her  mother, 
and  Cynthia  and  Jack  were  at  school.  Janet  herself  was 
enjoying  an  unlooked-for  holiday  owing  to  the  illness  of 
her  teacher,  and  she  was  about  to  fulfil  the  proverb  which 


156 

tells  of  the  occupation  that  is  found  for  idle  bands  to  do, 
though  in  this  case  it  was  an  idle  tongue. 

The  dangers  of  the  barn-yard  overcome,  Janet  pursued 
her  way  along  the  cart-road  that  led  to  the  far  meadow, 
and  there,  sitting  on  a  rock  near  the  river,  she  found  the 
object  of  her  search.  He  was  whittling  a  boat  while  he 
pondered  moodily  about  his  affairs. 

"  Neal,  Neal !"  she  called,  breathless  from  excitement 
and  haste,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  What  have  you 
done  with  my  present  ?" 

"  Where  did  you  come  from,  you  small  imp  ?"  said 
Neal,  with  lazy  good-nature.  Preoccupied  though  he  was, 
he  was  fond  of  children,  and  particularly  of  mischief-lov- 
ing Janet,  and  he  was  not  sorry  to  have  his  solitude  re- 
lieved by  her  coming. 

"  Where's  my  present  ?"  repeated  Janet ;  "  I  want  it 
dreadful  bad." 

"Your  present!  What  do  you  mean,  young  one? 
You  don't  suppose  for  an  instant  that  I'm  making  this 
boat  for  you,  do  you  ?" 

"  Boat !"  cried  Janet,  disdainfully  ;  "  I  don't  want  any 
old  boat ;  I  want  Aunt  Betsey's  present." 

"  I  suppose  you  do.  I  would  myself  if  I  were  so  lucky 
as  to  own  an  Aunt  Betsey.  But  I'm  afraid  I  can't  help 
you  in  that  line,  my  child." 

"  Yes,  you  can,"  said  Janet,  tugging  at  his  elbow,  "  you 
can  too.     You've  got  it.     Papa  said  so." 
*'  Got  what  ?" 

"  Aunt  Betsey's  present.     He  and  the  postmaster  man 
said  you  took  it." 
*'Said  I  took  it?" 
"  Yes.     Come,  Neal,  give  it  to  me.     I  don't  want  the 


157 


gold  dollars— you  can  have  those— but  I'd  like  the  funny 
thing  she  sent  with  them.  Aunt  Betsey  alius  sends  funny 
things.  Come  along,  Neal.  Give  it  to  me." 
"  Did  your  father  say  I  took  that  money  ?" 
"  Yes,  he  did.  Didn't  I  say  so  lots  of  times  ?  Edith 
said  you  didn't,  and  papa  said  you  did.  What's  the  mat- 
ter with  your  face  ?     It  looks  awful  funny." 

"  Never  mind  what  it  looks  like.  Tell  me  what  your 
father  said." 

«0h,  I  don't  know  what  he  said,  and  I've  told  you  ten 
hundred  times.  Don't  hold  my  arm  so  tight ;  it  hurts. 
Let  me  go,  Neal." 

"  I  won't,  till  you  tell  me  what  he  said." 
"  I'll  never  tell  unless  you  let  go.     I'll  scream  and  peo- 
ple '11  know  you're  killing  me  dead,  and  then  you'll  get 
punished." 

She  opened  her  mouth  and  gave  a  long,  shrill  shriek. 
"  Oh,  hush  up  !"  exclaimed  Neal,  roughly  ;  "  if  I  let  go 
will  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  you'll  give  me  that  boat.  I  think  I'd  like  it, 
after  all." 

Neal  released  her  and  thrust  the  boat  into  her  hand. 
"  Now  what  ?"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  nothing  much,  except  papa  came  out  of  the  post- 
office  and  told  Edith  the  postmaster  man  said  maybe  you'd 
taken  Aunt  Betsey's  package,  'cause  you  gave  him  some 
gold  dollars.  And  papa  said  it  must  have  been  my  pres- 
ent, 'cause  you  couldn't  get  gold  dollars  any  other  way  no- 
how, and  papa  was  mad,  I  guess,  'cause  his  face  looked 
the  way  it  does  when  some  of  us  chillens  is  naughty,  with 
his  mouth  all  shut  up  tight.  There,  that's  all.  Now,  Neal, 
give  me  the  thing  Aunt  Betsey  sent." 


158 


"  I  haven't  got  it  and  I  never  Lad  it.  And  now  good-bye 
to  you,  every  one  of  you,  forever !  Do  you  hear  ?  Forever ! 
I'm  not  going  to  stay  another  minute  in  a  place  where  I'm 
insulted." 

He  strode  away,  and  Janet,  frightened  at  she  knew  not 
what,  sat  down  on  a  rock  and  began  to  cry.  How  very 
queer  Neal  was,  and  how  queer  his  face  looked  !  She  won- 
dered what  he  was  going  to  do.  Perhaps  he  was  going 
down  to  the  cellar  to  smash  all  the  eggs.  He  looked  that 
way. 

She  sat  there  a  while,  but  it  was  cool  without  the  red 
jacket,  left  on  the  other  side  of  the  barn-yard — for  although 
it  was  spring  according  to  the  almanac,  there  was  still  a 
sharpness  in  the  air — and  very  soon  she  too  went  towards 
home.  She  had  not  found  Aunt  Betsey's  present,  after 
all,  and  she  had  nothing  to  repay  her  for  her  search  but 
a  half-made  wooden  boat  and  an  aching  arm. 

And  there  were  those  pigs,  still  at  large.  She  got 
through  safely,  but  left  the  gate  open,  thereby  allowing 
the  animals  to  escape,  and  incurring  the  wrath  of  the 
farmer. 

When  she  reached  the  house  Neal  was  not  to  be  found. 
There  was  no  one  at  home,  for  Edith  and  her  father  had 
driven  over  to  Upper  Falls  on  business,  after  leaving  Janet 
at  the  door.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  out  and 
tease  the  good-natured  kitchen-maid  into  giving  her  a 
huge  slice  of  bread  and  butter  and  sugar.  Mary  Ann  and 
Martha,  the  old  servants,  would  never  do  it,  but  the  youth- 
ful Amanda  was  more  lenient. 

*'  Where's  Neal,  'Manda?"  asked  Janet,  as  she  munched 
the  dehcious  portion  which  was  placed  before  her.  They 
were  in  the  pantry,  beyond  the  ken  of  the  other  maids. 


159 


"  I  don't  know.  He  came  a-stalkin'  past  the  kitching 
•windies  a  little  while  ago,  an'  I  heard  him  run  up-stairs 
an'  down  like  a  house  a-fire,  an'  out  the  front  door  with 
a  bang." 

"  Guess  he's  excited,"  murmured  Janet,  with  her  mouth 
full ;  "  guess  that  must  be  it.  He's  gone  o£E  mad.  We 
had  a  fight  out  in  the  pasture." 

"  La,  child  !    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  say  any  more,  'cept  me  and  Neal, 
we  fit  a  fight  in  the  pasture.  I  made  him  awful  mad," 
with  another  huge  bite. 

"La,  child,  you  do  beat  everything!  But  there's  Mary 
Ann  caUing  me.  Don't  you  take  a  bit  more  sugar.  Now 
mind  1" 

But  Janet,  left  to  herself  in  the  pantry,  made  a  fine 
repast. 

The  family  came  home  to  dinner,  with  the  exception  of 
Mr.  Franklin  and  Edith,  and  although  Neal's  absence  was 
commented  upon,  no  one  thought  anything  of  it.  Ho 
frequently  went  off  for  a  long  day  alone  on  the  river. 

When  the  meal  was  nearly  over  and  dessert  had  been 
placed  upon  the  table,  Janet  thought  that  she  would  an- 
nounce what  had  taken  place.  She  felt  quite  important 
at  being  the  cause  of  Neal's  disappearance. 

"  Guess  Neal's  awful  mad  with  me,"  she  said,  suddenly. 
No  one  paid  much  attention.     She  would  try  again. 

"  Guess  Neal's  awful  mad  with  me  'bout  what  I  said 
'bout  Aunt  Betsey's  present." 

"What  did  you  say  about  it?"  asked  Jack,  who  sat 
next  to  her.  There  was  a  lull  in  the  conversation,  and 
every  one  heard  her  reply. 

"  Ob,  I  told  him  to  give  it  to  me.     I  said  papa  said  he 


160 


took  it,  and  he  could  have  the  gold  dollars,  but  I  wanted 
the  funny  thing.  Why,  maybe  it  was  a  doll  or  a  purse 
or  some  other  nice  thing.  Course  I  wanted  it.  My, 
though,  JSTeal  was  mad  !" 

"  What  did  you  tell  him,  Janet  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Franklin, 
in  much  astonishment ;  "  that  your  father  said  Neal  had 
taken  your  present  ?  When  did  he  say  so,  and  what  do 
you  mean?" 

"  Goody,  mamma,  you're  asking  most  as  many  questions 
as  Neal  did.  Guess  you're  excited,  like  he  was.  I  told 
him  papa  said  he'd  taken  ray  present  from  Aunt  Betsey. 
The  postmaster  man  said  so  this  morning.  And  Neal 
looked  awful  queer  when  I  told  him,  and  he  hurted  my 
arm  awful  bad.     And  then  he  went  off  and  left  me." 

ISIrs.  Franklin  became  very  white. 

"  I  think  you  will  have  to  excuse  me,  children.  I — I  do  not 
feel  very  well.    I  will  go  lie  down.    Jack,  your  arm,  please." 

Jack  sprang  to  help  her  and  led  her  from  the  room. 
Cynthia  only  waited  to  scold  Janet  for  her  idle  chatter  and 
then  followed. 

"But  it's  true,  Cynthia,"  her  small  sister  called  after 
her.  "  It's  true,  and  you're  real  mean  to  say  it  isn't. 
You  just  ask  Edith." 

W^hen  Mr.  Franklin  returned  and  learned  that  his  hastily 
uttered  words  of  the  morning  had  been  repeated  to  his 
wife  and  to  Neal,  he  was  distressed  beyond  measure. 

"  My  dear,  I  never  meant  it,"  he  said.  "  Hester,  you 
must  know  that  I  could  not  really  believe  that  Neal  would 
do  such  a  thing.  It  was  impossible  to  help  remarking 
upon  the  singular  coincidence.  I  never  thought  the  child 
would  hear  me.  What  shall  I  do  with  her?  She  ought 
not  to  have  repeated  what  I  said." 


161 


"  Do  nothing,  Jolin.  Janet  is  not  to  blame ;  naturally 
a  child  of  her  age  would  get  it  wrong.  But  oh,  I  am  re- 
lieved to  find  you  did  not  really  think  it !  It  gave  me 
such  a  shock  to  he^r  that  you  thought  him  capable  of 
such  an  action." 

"  Where  is  the  boy  ?     I  want  to  tell  him  myself." 

But  Neal  could  not  be  found.  Cynthia  and  Jack  hunt- 
ed over  the  place,  looking  for  him  in  all  his  haunts.  He 
was  not  on  the  river,  for  his  canoe  was  in  its  place. 
He  had  not  gone  to  the  village,  for  no  horse  was  out,  and, 
whether  he  had  walked  or  driven,  his  sister  would  have 
met  him  when  she  returned  from  Boston.  He  could  not 
have  gone  for  a  walk,  for  Bob  had  been  left  at  home,  and 
Neal  never  walked  without  Bob. 

A  horrible  foreboding  seized  Cynthia.  What  if  Neal 
had  run  away  ?  But  no,  surely  he  would  never  do  such  a 
thing.  The  idea  of  her  -even  thinking  of  it  when  such  a 
course  would  only  make  people  believe  that  he  had  really 
taken  the  money.  Cynthia  scolded  herself  severely  for 
having  allowed  the  supposition  to  come  into  her  mind. 
But  where  was  he  ?  As  a  last  resource  she  called  Janet 
to  her  and  again  questioned  the  child  closely.  They  were 
standing  on  the  drive  in  front  of  the  house. 

"What  did  Neal  say  to  you,  Janet,  when  he  went 
off?" 

"  Oh,  he  was  awful  mad,  I  told  you,  Cynthia.  He  was 
just  mad." 

"But  did  he  say  anything?" 

"  Oh  yes,  lots.     But  I  forget  what." 

"  Can't  you  remember  anything,  Janet  ?     Not  one  word? 

Did  he  say  where  he  was  going  ?" 

"  No-o,"  drawled  Janet,  "  he  just  said —     My,  Cynthia, 
11 


162 


look  at  that  bluebird !  It's  a  real  bluebird,  sure's  you're 
alive.     Wisb  I  could  catcli  bim." 

"  But,  Janet,  never  mind  the  bird.  What  did  Neal 
say  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  said  good-bye  and  he  was  going.  Cynthia,  I 
b'lieve  if  I  had  some  salt  to  put  on  that  bird's  tail  I  could 
catch  him.  Mayn't  I,  Cynthia?  Mayn't  I  get  some  salt 
and  put  it  on  his  tail  ?" 

"  No,  you  can't !"  cried  Cynthia,  stamping  her  foot. 
"  I  do  wish  you  would  tell  me  all  Neal  said." 

"  There  now,  you're  in  an  angry  passion,"  observed  her 
small  sister,  gazing  at  her  calmly ;  "  you've  let  your  angry 
passions  rise.  You  frightened  that  bird  away,  a-stampin' 
of  your  foot  that  way.     Aren't  you  'shamed  !" 

"Oh,  Janet,  never  mind.  Please  tell  me.  Did  he 
really  say  good-bye  ?" 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  coral  necklace  if  I  tell  you  all 
he  said?"  said  Janet,  who  was  ever  prompt  to  seize  an 
opportunity. 

"  Yes,  yes !     Anything  1" 

"Well,  he  said — are  you  sure  you  mean  it,  Cynthia? 
I  want  the  coral  necklace  with  the  nice  little  gold  clasp 
and—" 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  groaned  Cynthia.  "  I've  only  got 
one  coral  necklace,  you  dreadful  child !  Go  on,  do  go 
on!" 

"  My,  Cynthia !  You're  terrible  impatient,  and  I  guess 
your  angry  passions  have  riz  again.  Well,  he  said, 
*  Good-bye  forever,  I'm  going  away,'  and  ofE  he  went." 

^'  Was  that  all  ?     Truthfully,  Janet  ?" 

"Yes,  truthfully  all.  He  said  he  wouldn't  stay  any 
longer  'cause  he  was  salted,  or  something." 


163 


"  Salted !" 

"  Yes,  or  suited,  or  some  word  like  that." 

"  /?2salted,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  guess  so.     And  now,  where's  the  necklace  2" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

It  was  true,  then.     Neal  had  gone. 

Cynthia  went  to  her  mother's  room  and  told  her  what 
Janet  had  said. 

"  It  is  what  I  feared,"  cried  Mrs.  Franklin  ;  "  he  has  left 
me  forever  !  My  dear  and  only  brother !  And  where  is 
he?  Cynthia,  Cynthia,  why  did  he  go?  It  almost  makes 
me  think  he  may  have  taken  the  money." 

"  Mamma,  how  can  you !"  exclaimed  Cynthia,  indignant- 
ly. "Neal  never  took  it.  I — I — oh,  I  knoio  he  didn't 
take  it !  Can't  you  believe  me,  mamma  ?"  She  was  al- 
most crying. 

"  Dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin,  looking  at  her  affec- 
tionately, "  you  have  more  faith  in  him  than  I  have.  But 
this  running  away  is  so  much  against  him,  Cynthia.  If 
he  had  been  innocent,  would  he  not  have  stayed  to  brave 
it  out?" 

"  No  ;  he  is  so  proud,  mamma.  That  is  the  reason  he 
went,  I  am  sure.  He  thought  papa  suspected  him.  Oh, 
why  did  papa  ever  think  it?  Why  did  he  say  anything 
to  Edith  for  Janet  to  hear?" 

"  Hush,  dear.  Your  father  spoke  thoughtlessly,  but  it 
was  natural ;  of  course  it  was  natural.  But  Neal  should 
not  have  gone.  It  is  a  false  kind  of  pride.  If  he  is  inno- 
cent he  should  have  the  pride  of  innocence  and  stay  here." 

It  was  what  they  all  said.  Cynthia  went  from  one  to 
the  other,  trying  to   convince  them  and  to   imbue  them 


165 


■with  her  own  belief  in  Neal,  but  she  could   not.     Even 
Jack,  her  beloved  twiu-brother,  was  on  the  other  side. 

"Of  course  I  want  to  believe  in  Neal,  Cyuth,"  he  said. 
"  I  like  him,  and  I  never  supposed  before  he'd  do  a  low- 
down  thing  like  this.  In  fact,  I  can't  really  believe  it  now. 
But  why  on  earth  did  the  fellow  run  away  ?  If  he  came 
by  the  money  all  fair  and  square,  why  under  the  sun  didn't 
he  say  so,  instead  of  shutting  himself  up  like  an  oyster 
and  never  letting  on  where  he  got  it  ?" 

"  He  had  his  reasons,"  persisted  Cynthia.  "  Oh,  Jack, 
can't  you  believe  me?     You  always  used  to  believe  me." 

"Well,  you  used  to  tell  a  fellow  more  than  you  do  now. 
You  get  mighty  shut  up  yourself  now  and  then.  You 
won't  tell  me  what  you're  going  to  do  with  Aunt  Betsey's 
money,  or  why  you  didn't  buy  a  watch,  or  anything.  I'm 
sure  I  don't  want  you  to  if  you  don't  want  to,  but  there's 
no  reason  why  I  should  always  think  as  you  do." 

If  they  had  not  been  sitting  side  by  side  Jack  could 
not  have  failed  to  notice  the  peculiar  expression  that  came 
into  Cynthia's  face  when  he  mentioned  Aunt  Betsey's  pres- 
ent. They  were  on  the  stone  wall  which  crossed  the  river 
path.  Bob  was  with  them,  darting  hither  and  thither,  per- 
haps in  the  vain  hope  of  finding  his  master. 

"  I  don't  need  a  watch,  I've  told  you  over  and  over 
again,"  said  Cynthia.  "  But  oh,  Jack,  I  wish  you  would 
agree  with  me  !     Indeed,  Neal  is  honest." 

"  I  believe  he  is  myself,  on  the  whole,"  said  Jack  at 
last;  "but  it's  a  mighty  queer  thing  he  doesn't  own  up  and 
tell  where  he  got  that  money,  and  he's  a  great  ass  not  to. 
You  see  the  postmaster  thinks  that  perhaps  the  package 
did  come  from  Aunt  Betsey,  and  Neal  paid  gold  just  a  few 
days  later.     Of  course  it  looks  queer." 


166 


It  was  the  same  way  with  Edith.  She  would  not  be 
convinced,  and  after  a  vain  argument  with  her  Cynthia 
retired  to  the  only  place  where  she  was  sure  of  being  un- 
disturbed, and  cried  until  her  eyes  smarted  and  her  head 
ached.  It  was  to  the  garret  that  she  went  when  she 
wished  to  be  alone,  and,  amid  the  piles  of  empty  paper 
boxes  and  bars  of  soap  and  all  the  varied  possessions  that 
were  stored  there,  she  sat  and  thought  over  the  matter. 

**  Ought  I  to  tell  ?"  she  said  again  and  again,  speaking 
in  a  hoarse  whisper;  "  oh  !  why  did  I  ever  promise  ?" 

For  Cynthia  had  at  last  prevailed  upon  Neal  to  borrow 
her  money  to  pay  Bronson  with,  and  had  promised  that  she 
would  not  tell,  and  Cynthia  had  a  very  strict  sense  of  honor. 

"  Ought  I  to  tell  ?"  she  repeated  ;  "  no,  a  promise  is  a 
promise,  and  I  have  no  right  to  break  it.  I  was  silly,  I 
was  idiotic  ever  to  promise  such  a  thing,  but  how  did  I 
know  it  was  coming  out  this  way  ?  If  Neal  had  only  not 
gone  ofE !  Perhaps  he  will  come  back  soon ;  then  I  can 
make  him  tell.  He  does  not  realize  how  foolish,  how 
wrong  it  is  to  keep  it  a  secret.  Oh,  if  he  would  only 
come  back !" 

But  Neal  did  not  come  back.  Instead  of  that,  the  next 
morning  Mrs.  Franklin  received  a  letter  from  him.  He 
repeated  the  same  words.  He  could  not  stay  where  he 
was  insulted.  If  they  could  not  believe  him  he  would  go. 
He  had  a  perfect  right  to  use  the  money  which  he  had 
paid  for  the  money-order,  and  he  would  never  condescend 
to  explain  where  he  got  it.  He  was  visiting  a  friend  at 
present,  but  he  was  going  at  once  in  search  of  some  work. 
He  intended  to  support  himself  henceforth. 

It  was  a  very  absurd  letter,  and  it  made  Mr.  Franklin 
more  anorrv  than  ever  and  his  wife  more  distressed. 


167 


*'  It  is  perfect  nonsense,"  said  he.  "  The  boy  is  not  of 
age  and  he  can  be  stopped.  I  will  write  at  once  to  his 
guardians.  In  the  meantime  we  will  look  him  up  in  Bos- 
ton ;  from  the  postmark  I  suppose  he  is  there." 

"  One  of  his  guardians  is  abroad,  and  the  other  is  that 
old  Quaker  cousin  of  my  mother's,"  sighed  Mrs.  Frank- 
lin. 

"  Give  me  his  address,  and  don't  worry,  Hester.  The 
affair  will  come  around  all  right,  I  have  no  doubt.  He  is 
a  headstrong  boy  and  he  needs  a  leash." 

They  could  not  find  him  in  Boston.  On  going  to  the 
houses  of  his  various  friends  there  they  learned  that  he 
had  spent  the  night  with  one  of  them,  but  had  left  to  go 
to  his  guardian  in  Philadelphia,  they  said. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  let  it  stand  as  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Frank- 
lin, when  he  returned ;  "  if  he  has  gone  to  Philadelphia, 
let  him  stay  there.  His  old  guardian  vrill  probably  keep 
him  in  better  order  than  we  can  ;  perhaps  it  will  be  better 
not  to  interfere.  I  don't  want  to  prejudice  him  against 
the  boy,  and  yet  how  can  I  explain  why  he  left  here  ?  He 
can  tell  his  own  story." 

His  wife,  however,  wrote  a  letter  to  her  brother,  and  ad- 
dressed it  to  the  care  of  her  cousin,  William  Carpenter,  of 
Philadelphia.  She  hoped  for  an  answer,  but  none  came,  and 
in  a  few  days  Mr.  Franklin  wrote  to  Mr.  Carpenter,  asking  if 
his  brother-in-law  had  arrived,  and  then,  without  w^aiting 
for  a  reply,  he  concluded  to  go  himself  to  Philadelphia. 

The  following  Sunday  was  Easter  Day — it  came  late 
this  year.  Cynthia,  sitting  in  the  Franklin  pew,  saw  to 
her  dismay  Tony  Bronson  on  the  other  side  of  the 
church.  He  was  with  the  Morgans.  Gertrude,  in  a  new 
spring  hat  with   nodding   flowers,    looked   triumphantly 


168 


over  at  her  friends.  It  pleased  her  immensely  to  have 
Bronson  come  so  often. 

"Dear  me,"  thought  Cynthia,  "there  will  be  more 
trouble  now  that  he  has  come,  for  he  will  tell  hateful 
things  about  Neal,  I'm  sure.  I  do  hope  Edith  won't  have 
anything  to  do  with  him." 

Her  thoughts  wandered  during  the  service.  When  it 
was  over  and  the  congregation  streamed  out  of  church 
into  the  mild  spring  air,  the  Morgans  invited  Edith  to 
come  home  with  them  to  dinner.  This  she  agreed  to  do, 
much  to  her  sister's  disgust ;  but  Cynthia  was  still  fur- 
ther incensed  when  Edith  came  back  that  afternoon  and 
announced,  in  a  would-be  careless  manner,  that  she  had 
promised  to  drive  with  Tony  Bronson  the  next  day. 

"  Why,  Edith  !"  said  Cynthia,  indignantly,  "  I  shouldn't 
think  you  would  have  anything  to  do  with  that  Bronson. 
He  has  been  hateful  to  Neal." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  say  that,"  returned 
Edith  ;  "  any  one  would  say  that  he  had  been  exceedingly 
nice  to  Neal.  He  lent  him  all  that  money,  I'm  sure. 
And  besides,  what  difference  does  it  make  ?  Neal  has  be- 
haved badly  and  run  away.  There  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  give  up  people  that  Neal  doesn't  happen  to  like. 
Papa  said  the  other  day  that  Tony  Bronson  was  probably 
a  very  good  sort  of  fellow,  because  he  wasn't  in  that  last 
scrape  of  Ncal's." 

"Papa  doesn't  know  a  thing  about  him,  and,  at  any 
rate,  papa  wouldn't  let  you  go  to  drive  if  he  were  at  home. 
You  know  he  wouldnH." 

Mrs.  Franklin  came  into  the  room  just  at  this  moment. 

"  Would  not  let  Edith  go  to  drive,  Cynthia  ?"  she  said. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  dear  ?" 


169 

"  Go  to  drive  with  strange  young  men  like  tbat  Bron- 
son." 

"  What  nonsense  !"  said  Edith,  crossly  ;  "  of  course  I  can 
go.  Papa  never  in  his  life  forbade  my  going  to  drive 
with  any  of  the  boys.     How  silly  you  are,  Cynthia." 

*'  Were  you  going  to  drive  with  Tony  Bronson,  Edith  ?" 
asked  her  step-mother. 

"  Yes,  I  am  going,  to-morrow." 

"  I  think  I  agree  with  Cynthia,  then.  I  hardly  think 
your  father  would  wish  you  to  go." 

"  Why,  how  perfectly  absurd !"  exclaimed  Edith,  grow- 
ing very  angry.  "  There  has  never  been  any  question  of 
my  going  to  drive  with  any  one  who  asked  me.  Do  you 
suppose  I  am  going  to  give  it  up  now  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  are,  Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin,  quietly, 
but  with  decision.  "  In  your  father's  absence  you  are  in 
my  charge,  and  I  do  not  consider  it  desirable  for  you  to 
drive  with  Mr.  Bronson,  nor  with  any  other  young  man 
whom  you  know  so  slightly.  It  is  not  in  good  taste,  to 
say  the  least.  Please  oblige  me  by  giving  it  up  this  time. 
If  I  am  mistaken  in  your  father's  views  on  the  subject 
you  can  go  after  he  gets  home." 

"  I  won't  give  it  up  1"  exclaimed  Edith,  hotly.  "  Tony 
Bronson  will  be  gone  when  papa  gets  home,  and,  besides, 
what  can  I  tell  him  ?     I've  said  I  would  go." 

"  It  is  always  possible  to  break  an  engagement  of  that 
kind,"  said  her  mother ;  "  you  can  tell  him  that  you  find 
I  have  made  other  plans  for  you." 

"  I  sha'n't  tell  him  any  such  thing,  Mrs.  Franklin.  I 
think  it  is  too  bad.  You  have  no  right  to  order  me  in 
this  way." 

"  No  right,  Edith  ?     I  have  at  least  a  right  to  be  spoken 


170 


to  with  respect,  and  you  "will  oblige  me  by  doing  so. 
Please  send  a  note  to  Mr.  Bronson  by  the  man  who  goes 
to  the  village  to-night." 

She  left  the  room,  and  Cynthia,  -who  had  restrained 
herself  with  great  difficulty,  now  gave  vent  to  her  feelings. 

*'  I  don't  see  how  you  can  be  so  horrid  to  mamma, 
Edith.  AVhat  are  you  thinking  of  ?  And  when  she  is  so 
worried  about  Neal,  too." 

"Neal !  "Why  should  we  suffer  for  Neal?  She  has  no 
right  to  order  me ;  I  won't  be  treated  like  a  small  child. 
The  idea  of  it  not  being  in  good  taste  to  drive  with  Tony 
Bronson !" 

"  Don't  be  so  absurd,  Edith.  Why,  even  I  know  papa 
wouldn't  want  you  to.  It's  very  different  from  going  with 
the  Brenton  boys  that  we  have  known  all  our  lives.  You 
think  I'm  such  an  infant,  but  I  know  that  much,  and  any 
other  time  you  would  yourself.  It  is  just  because  it  is 
that  hateful  Bronson.  I  can't  understand  what  you  and 
Gertrude  see  in  him.     You  are  both  so  silly  about  him." 

Edith  colored  hotly. 

"I  am  not  silly.  I  think  he  is  very  nice,  that's  all.  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  interfere,  Cynthia.  You  are  silly  to 
have  such  a  prejudice  against  him.  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  write  that  note,  and  I  do  hate  to  give  in  to  Mrs. 
Franklin.     Oh,  why,  why,  whi/  did  papa  marry  again  ?" 

She  raised  her  voice  irritably  as  she  said  this,  and  added : 

"  All  this  fuss  about  Neal  and  everything !  We  never 
should  have  had  it  if  the  Gordons  hadn't  come  into  the 
family.  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn't  see  you."  For 
standing  in  the  doorway  was  her  step-mother. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  the  coming  of  the  Gordons  has  caused 
you  so  much  trouble,  Edith.     We — we  are  unfortunate." 


171 


She  turned  away  and  went  up-stairs. 

"  Edith,  I  don't  see  how  you  can,"  exclaimed  Cynthia. 
"  Mamma  had  so  much  trouble  when  she  was  a  young 
girl,  and  she  was  so  alone  until  she  came  here,  and  now 
all  this  about  Neal.     Really,  I  don't  see  how  you  can." 

And  she  ran  after  her  mother. 

Edith,  left  alone,  was  a  prey  to  conflicting  emotions. 
She  knew  she  had  done  wrong — very  wrong.  She  was 
really  sorry  for  the  grief  that  Mrs.  Franklin  was  suffering 
on  Neal's  account,  and  she  had  not  wanted  to  hurt  her. 

"  Of  course,  I  did  not  intend  her  to  hear  me.  How  did 
I  know  she  was  there  ?  It  makes  me  so  angry  to  think 
that  I  can't  do  what  I  want." 

That  was  the  gist  of  the  whole  matter.  Edith  wanted 
her  own  way,  and  she  was  determined  to  have  it.  She  sat 
for  a  long  time,  thinking  it  all  over.  She  did  not  make 
any  great  effort  to  quench  her  resentment,  and  so,  of 
course,  it  became  more  intense.  After  a  while  she  rose 
and  went  to  the  desk. 

"  1  simply  can't  write  him  that  I  won't  go,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  How  they  would  all  laugh  if  I  said  Mrs.  Frank- 
lin '  had  made  other  plans  for  me,'  as  if  I  were  Janet^s 
age  !  No,  I'll  write  Gertrude  that  I'll  come  down  and 
spend  the  day  with  her,  and  perhaps  when  I  get  there  I 
can  induce  Tony  to  play  tennis,  or  something,  instead  of 
going  to  drive.  I'll  try  and  get  out  of  it,  as  long  as  I 
must,  but  I'm  going  to  have  a  good  time  of  some  sort. 
I  won't  be  cheated  out  of  that." 

She  wrote  the  note,  and  it  was  sent  to  the  Morgans 
that  night.  Mrs.  Franklin  supposed,  of  course,  that  it 
was  merely  to  give  up  the  drive ;  so  she  was  surprised 
when  Edith  announced  that  she  was  going  to  spend  the 


172 


next  day  with  Gertrude.  However,  she  raised  no  objec- 
tions, nor  indeed  did  she  have  any.  Her  mind  was  too 
full  of  Neal  to  think  of  much  else.  Even  the  altercation 
with  Edith,  painful  though  it  had  been,  failed  to  make 
any  lasting  impression.  Hester  longed  for  her  husband 
to  return  and  tell  her  what  he  had  learned.  She  had  an 
uneasy  feeling  that  something  was  wrong.  It  was  so 
strange  that  Neal  had  not  written  from  Philadelphia. 

Cynthia  did  not  take  it  so  quietly. 

"  I  think  you  are  a  goose,  Edith,"  she  said,  the  next 
morning.  "Every  one  will  think  you  are  running  after 
Tony  Bronson.  You  were  there  to  dinner  yesterday,  and 
now  you  are  going  again  to-day." 

Edith  was  greatly  incensed. 

"  I  am  not  running  after  him.  How  can  you  say  such 
things  ?    I  often  go  there  two  days  in  succession." 

And  she  went  ofiE  holding  her  head  very  high,  being 
driven  to  the  village  by  Jack.  Arrived  at  the  Morgans, 
she  was  warmly  greeted  by  all. 

"So  good  of  you  to  come,"  murmured  Bronson ;  "now  we 
can  start  from  here  on  our  drive,  and  go  over  to  Blue  Hill." 

"  I  think  I  can't  go  to  drive  to-day.  I — I  thought 
perhaps  we  would  play  tennis,  instead." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Edith !  After  your  promise  ?  I  am  not 
going  to  let  you  off  so  easily.  No,  indeed,  we  are  going 
to  drive.  It  is  a  fine  day,  and  I've  engaged  a  gay  little 
mare  at  the  livery  stable." 

Edith  remonstrated  feebly,  but  Bronson  would  not 
listen.  She  had  half  hoped  it  would  be  this  way,  she 
wanted  so  much  to  go.  However,  she  would  try  again. 
She  supposed  no  one  at  home  would  object  to  her  taking 
the  drive  if  they  all  went  together. 


173 


When  she  and  Gertrude  were  alone  for  a  minute,  she 
said : 

"  Why  don't  you  go  too  to  drive  ?  We  might  all  go 
to  Blue  Hill." 

"  No  indeed  1"  laughed  Gertrude.  "  I  am  not  going  a 
step.  I  haven't  been  asked,  and  I  wouldn't  think  of  in- 
truding." 

"But  it  would  be  such  fun,"  persisted  Edith;  "you 
know  we  always  used  to  go  in  a  crowd,  and  walk  up  the 
hill." 

"  Times  have  changed,"  returned  her  friend,  pointedly. 
"  This  time  you  are  asked  to  go  alone.  If  it  were  any 
one  but  you,  Edith,  I  should  be  wildly  jealous." 
'  Edith  blushed  and  looked  conscious,  and  afterwards 
when  Bronson  renewed  his  pleading  she  consented  to  go 
with  him.  Naturally  it  was  great  fun  to  drive  off  with 
Tony  Bronson  in  that  stylish  little  trap  he  had  described. 
She  had  tried  to  get  out  of  it ;  she  would  tell  Mrs.  Frank- 
lin how  they  overcame  her  scruples.  After  all,  Mrs.  Frank- 
lin had  no  real  right  to  prevent  her  going,  she  said  to 
herself.  Perhaps  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  explain. 
Unless  they  chanced  to  meet  some  of  the  family,  why 
need  she  tell  that  she  had  been  to  drive  at  all  ? 

Thus  she  deceived  herself  into  thinking  that  she  was 
doing  no  wrong,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of 
the  moment. 

That  afternoon  Mrs.  Parker,  Miss  Betsey  Trinkett's  old 
friend,  called  at  Oakleigh. 

"  So  glad  to  find  you  at  home,  Mrs.  Franklin,"  she  said. 
"  I  met  Edith  a  while  ago,  and  she  did  look  so  sweet  and 
pretty,  driving  with  that  nice  young  man  that  stays  at  the 
Morgans'.     What's  his  name  ?" 


174 


"  You  cannot  mean  Mr.  Bronson  ?" 

*' Bronson,  yes;  that's  it  —  Bronson.  Yes,  they  were 
driving  away  over  towards  Milton.  I  guess  they  were  go- 
ing to  Blue  Hill ;  it's  a  favorite  drive  for  young  folks. 
You  Jet  her  have  plenty  of  liberty,  Mrs.  Franklin,  don't 
you  ?  AVell,  I  suppose  you  have  to,  being  but  a  step- 
mother. And  now^  do  tell  me  about  your  brother.  They 
say  all  kinds  of  things  in  Brenton,  but  you  can't  believe 
half  of  them.  I  dare  say  you  know  just  where  he  is, 
after  all." 

"  My  brother  went  to  Philadelphia,  Mrs.  Parker,"  said 
her  hostess,  controlling  herself  with  difficulty.  The  shock 
of  hearing  that  Edith  had  directly  disobeyed  her  was 
almost  too  much  for  her. 

"  To  Philadelphia !     Have  you  friends  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  cousin." 

"  Well,  now,  Pm  glad  to  hear  that !  Pll  just  tell  people 
and  stop  their  tongues ;  they  do  say  so  much  they  don't 
mean.  Why,  only  this  afternoon  somebody  said  they'd 
been  told  that  Neal  Gordon  had  been  seen  walking  over 
the  Boston  road.  That's  the  very  reason  I  came  up  here, 
to  see  if  it  was  true,  and  here  he  is  away  off  in  Philadel- 
phia 1" 

Mrs.  Franklin  started. 

"  the  Boston  road  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  to  think  of  his  being  in  Philadelphia  all  the 
time  !  Well,  I  must  be  going,  Mrs.  Franklin.  Edith  did 
look  sweet.  You  dress  her  so  prettily.  I  always  did 
think  those  girls  needed  a  mother.  And  here  comes 
Cynthia." 

Walking  up  across  the  green  from  the  river  came  Cyn- 
thia, with  a  paper  in  her  hand  which  she  was  reading.    At 


175 


sight  of  Mrs.  Parker  and  her  mother  standing  at  the  car- 
riage door,  she  hastily  thrust  the  paper  into  her  pocket. 

Cynthia  had  been  after  wild-flowers  to  plant  in  the  bed 
she  had  for  them.  She  was  in  the  woods  not  far  from 
home  when  a  small  and  ragged  boy  approached  her. 

"  Be  you  Cynthy  ?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  up  from  her  digging,  startled. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Then  here's  for  yer,  an'  yer  not  to  tell  nobody." 

So  saying,  the  messenger  disappeared  as  rapidly  and 
mysteriously  as  he  had  come,  his  bare  feet  making  little 
noise  in  last  year's  dead  leaves. 

Cynthia  opened  the  crushed  and  dirty  paper,  and  to  her 
astonishment  found  Neal's  handwriting  within. 

"  Meet  me  on  Brenton  Island  near  the  bridge,  Tuesday, 
as  early  as  you  can.  And  don't  tell  I  am  here.  Remem- 
ber, dori't  tell.'''' 

The  last  words  were  heavily  underlined. 

Cynthia's  heart  stood  still  from  excitement.  Neal  so 
near,  and  his  sister  not  to  know  it !  But  she  would  pre- 
vail upon  him  to  come  home.  He  could  not  refuse  her 
after  all  they  had  been  through  on  his  account. 

Full  of  hope,  she  gathered  up  her  trowel  and  her  basket 
of  plants  and  ran  towards  the  house.  Fortunately  that 
tiresome  Mrs.  Parker  was  there,  and  so  her  mother  would 
not  notice  her  excitement.  For  once  Cynthia  was  glad 
to  see  the  lady.  Since  her  escapade  of  the  year  before 
she  had  always  been  somewhat  ashamed  of  meeting  her. 

An  hour  or  two  later  a  closed  carriage  came  slowly  up 
the  avenue.  Dennis  Morgan  was  on  the  box  with  the 
coachman.  Inside  were  Gertrude,  Dr.  Farley,  and  Edith, 
and  Edith  was  unconscious. 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  drive  to  Blue  Hill  liad  been  delightful  and  the 
view  from  the  top  exceptionally  fine,  it  being  one  of  those 
clear,  still  days  when  distant  objects  are  brought  near.  It 
seemed  almost  possible  to  lay  one's  finger  upon  the  spires 
of  Boston  and  the  glistening  dome  of  the  State  -  house, 
miles  away. 

Bronson  bad  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost.  He  wished 
to  stand  well  with  all  men,  and  particularly  with  the 
Franklin  family.  From  a  worldly  point  of  view  it  would 
have  a  most  excellent  effect  for  him  to  be  seen  driving 
with  pretty  Edith  Franklin,  of  Oakleigh.  He  was  glad 
whenever  they  passed  a  handsome  turnout  from  Milton 
and  he  was  obliged  to  take  off  his  hat  to  its  occupants. 
He  felt  that  he  had  really  gone  up  in  the  world  during 
the  last  year  or  two.  It  was  a  lucky  thing  for  him,  he 
thought,  that  he  had  fallen  in  with  Tom  Morgan  at  St. 
Asaph's.  By  the  time  he  left  college,  which  he  was  en- 
tering this  year,  he  would  have  made  quite  a  number  of 
desirable  acquaintances. 

His  talk  was  clever,  but  every  now  and  then  he  said 
something  that  made  Edith  wince.  He  spoke  of  Neal, 
and  was  sorry  he  had  gone  to  the  bad  altogether.  Had 
he  really  disappeared  ? 

Edith  hesitated ;  she  had  not  the  ready  wit  with  which 
Cynthia  would  have  parried  the  question. 

"  We  think  he  is  in  Philadelphia,"  she  said,  finally. 


177 


Bronson  laughed. 

"Hardly,"  he  said;  "I  saw  him  in  Boston  a  day  or 
two  ago.  He  looked  rather  seedy,  I  thought,  and  I  felt 
sorry  for  him,  but  I  didn't  stop  and  speak.  Thought  it 
wouldn't  do,  don't  you  know ;  and  I'm  glad  I  didn't,  as 
you  feel  this  way.'* 

"  I  hardly  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Edith,  somewhat 
distantly  ;  "  we  are  sorry  Neal  went  away,  that  is  all." 

Though  she  thought  he  must  have  taken  the  money, 
Edith  felt  obliged  to  defend  Neal  for  the  sake  of  the  fam- 
ily honor.  She  had  suffered  extremely  from  the  talk  that 
there  had  been  in  Brenton  ;  she  did  so  dislike  to  be  talked 
about,  and  this  affair  had  given  rise  to  much  gossip. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  say  that,"  said  Bronson.  "  How 
generous  you  are  not  to  acknowledge  that  Gordon  stole 
the  money  to  pay  me." 

"  Stole  !"  repeated  Edith,  shuddering. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  I  shouldn't  have  stated  it  so  broadly ; 
but  I'm  so  mixed  up  in  it,  don't  you  know.  It  was  really 
my  fault,  you  see,  that  he  felt  obliged  to — er — to  take  it. 
But,  of  course,  I'd  no  idea  it  would  lead  to  any  such  thing 
as  this.  I  fancied  Gordon  could  get  hold  of  as  much 
money  as  he  wanted  by  perfectly  fair  means.  Will  you 
believe  me.  Miss  Edith,  when  I  tell  you  how  awfully  sorry 
I  am  that  I  should  have  indirectly  caused  you  any  annoy- 
ance ?" 

He  looked  very  handsome,  and  Edith  could  not  see  the 
expression  of  triumph  in  his  steely  eyes.  It  was  nice  of 
him,  perhaps,  to  say  this,  even  though  there  was  some- 
thing "  out "  in  his  way  of  doing  it. 

What  was  it  about  Bronson  that  always  affected  her 

thus,  even  though  she  liked  him  and  was  flattered  by  his 
12 


178 


attentions  ?  She  said  to  herself  that  it  was  merely  the  ef- 
fect of  Cynthia's  outspoken  dislike.  Unreasonable  though 
it  was,  it  influenced  her. 

But  now  it  came  over  Edith  with  overwhelming  force 
that  she  had  done  very  wrong  to  come  with  Tony  Bronson 
this  afternoon.  She  was  disobeying  her  step-mother,  be- 
sides acting  most  deceitfully.  Yes  ;  she  had  deliberately 
deceived  Mrs.  Franklin  when  she  wrote  the  note  the  day 
before ;  for  had  she  not  had  it  in  her  mind  then  to  allow 
herself  to  be  over-persuaded  in  regard  to  the  drive  ?  These 
thoughts  made  Edith  very  silent. 

And  then  they  had  driven  through  Brenton.  Unfort- 
unately an  electric  car  reached  the  corner  just  as  they 
did.  The  gay  little  mare  from  the  livery  stable,  which 
had  been  rather  resentful  of  control  all  the  afternoon, 
bolted  and  ran.  A  heavy  ice-cart  barred  the  way.  There 
was  a  crash,  and  Bronson  and  Edith  were  both  thrown  out. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  moment ;  but  Edith  had  time  to 
realize  what  was  about  to  happen,  and  again  there  flashed 
through  her  mind  the  conviction  of  how  wrongly  she  had 
behaved.     What  would  mamma  say  ? 

It  was  significant  that  she  thought  of  Mrs.  Franklin 
then  for  the  first  time  as  "mamma." 

Bronson  escaped  with  a  few  bruises,  but  Edith  was  very 
mucli  hurt — just  how  much  the  doctor  could  not  tell.  She 
was  unconscious  for  several  hours. 

Cynthia  never  forgot  that  night ;  her  father  away  ;  her 
mother,  with  tense,  strained  face,  watching  by  the  bed- 
side ;  and,  above  all,  the  awful  stillness  in  Edith's  room 
while  they  waited  for  her  to  open  her  eyes.  Perhaps 
she  would  never  open  them.  What  then  ?  Beyond  that 
Cynthia's  imagination  refused  to  go. 


179 


She  was  sorry  that  she  had  been  so  cross  with  Edith 
about  Bronson.  Suppose  she  never  were  able  to  speak  to 
her  sister  again  !  Her  last  words  would  have  been  angry 
ones.  She  would  not  remember  that  Edith  had  done 
wrong  to  go ;  all  that  was  forgotten  in  the  vivid  terror 
of  the  present  moment. 

The  tall  clock  in  the  hall  struck  twelve.  It  was  midnight 
again,  just  as  it  had  been  on  New  Year's  Eve  when  she 
and  Neal  stood  by  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the 
snow.     The  clock  had  struck  and  Neal  had  not  promised. 

Reminded  of  Neal,  she  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and 
drew  out  the  crumpled  note.  It  had  quite  escaped  her 
mind  that  she  was  to  meet  him  to-morrow.  To-morrow  ? 
It  was  to-day!  She  was  to  see  Neal  to-day,  and  bring 
him  back  to  her  mother.  Poor  mamma !  And  Cynthia 
looked  lovingly  at  the  silent  watcher  by  the  bed. 

Edith  did  not  die.  The  doctor,  who  spent  the  night 
at  Oakleigh,  spoke  more  hopefully  in  the  morning.  She 
was  very  seriously  hurt,  but  he  thought  that  in  time  she 
would  recover.     She  was  conscious  when  he  left. 

The  morning  dawned  fair,  but  by  nine  o'clock  the  sun 
was  obscured.  It  was  one  of  those  warm  spring  days  when 
the  clouds  hang  low  and  showers  are  imminent.  Mrs. 
Franklin  was  surprised  when  Cynthia  told  her  that  she  was 
going  on  the  river. 

"  To-day,  Cynthia  ?  It  looks  like  rain,  and  you  must  be 
tired,  for  you  had  little  sleep  last  night.  Besides,  your 
father  may  arrive  at  any  moment  if  he  got  my  telegram 
promptly,  and  then,  dear  Edith  !" 

"  I  know,  mamma,"  faltered  Cjmthia.  It  was  hard  to 
explain  away  her  apparent  thoughtlessness.  "  But  I  sha'n't 
be  gone  long.      It  always  does  me  good  to  paddle,  and 


180 


Jack  will  be  at  home  and  the  nurse  has  come.  Do  you 
really  need  me,  mamma  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  not  if  you  want  to  go  so  much.  I  thought  per- 
haps Edith  would  like  to  have  you  near.  But  I  must  go 
back  to  her  now.  Don't  stay  away  too  long,  Cynthia.  I 
like  to  have  you  within  call." 

Cynthia  would  have  preferred  to  stay  close  by  Edith's 
side,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  she  must  go  to  Neal. 
Afterwards,  when  she  came  back  and  brought  Neal  with 
her,  her  mother  would  understand. 

She  was  soon  in  the  canoe,  paddling  rapidly  down-stream. 
A  year  had  not  made  great  alteration  in  Cynthia's  appear- 
ance. As  she  was  fifteen  years  old  now  her  gowns  were 
a  few  inches  longer,  and  her  hair  was  braided  and  looped 
up  at  the  neck,  instead  of  hanging  in  curly  disorder  as  it 
once  did  ;  and  this  was  done  only  out  of  regard  for  Edith. 
Cynthia  herself  cared  no  more  about  the  way  she  looked 
than  she  ever  did.  She  did  not  want  to  grow  up,  she  said. 
She  preferred  to  remain  a  little  girl,  and  have  a  good  time 
just  as  long  as  she  possibly  could. 

It  was  quite  a  warm  morning  for  the  time  of  year,  and 
the  low-hanging  clouds  made  exercise  irksome,  but  Cynthia 
did  not  heed  the  weather.  Her  one  idea  was  to  reach  Neal 
as  quickly  as  possible  and  bring  him  home.  How  happy 
her  mother  would  be  1  She  wondered  why  he  had  not  re- 
turned to  the  house  at  once,  instead  of  sending  for  her  in 
this  mysterious  fashion  ;  it  would  have  been  so  much  nicer. 
However,  she  was  glad  he  had  come,  even  this  way.  It 
was  far  better  than  not  coming  at  all. 

Her  destination  lay  several  miles  from  Oakleigh ;  but 
the  current  and  what  breeze  there  was  were  both  in  Cyn- 
thia's favor,  and  it  was  not  long  before  she  had  passed 


181 


under  the  stone  bridge  wliicli  stood  about  half  way  be- 
tween. She  met  no  one ;  the  river  was  little  frequented 
at  this  hour  of  the  morning  so  far  from  the  town,  for  the 
numerous  curves  in  the  Charles  made  it  a  much  longer 
trip  by  water  than  by  road  from  Oakleigh  to  Brenton.  A 
farmer's  boy  or  two  watched  her  pass,  and  criticised  loud- 
ly, though  amiably,  the  long,  free  sweep  of  her  paddle. 

Cynthia  did  not  notice  them.  Her  mind  was  fully 
occupied,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  distance.  As 
each  bend  in  the  river  was  rounded  she  hoped  that  she 
might  see  Neal's  familiar  figure  waiting  for  her. 

And  at  last  she  did  see  him.  He  was  sitting  on  the 
bank,  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  when  she 
came  in  sight  he  ran  down  to  the  little  beach  that  made  a 
good  landing-place  just  at  this  point. 

"  Cynthia,  you're  a  brick !"  he  exclaimed.  ''  I  was 
afraid  you  were  not  coming." 

"  Oh,  Neal,  I'm  ,90  glad  to  see  you  !  Get  in  quickly,  and 
we'll  go  back  as  fast  as  we  can.  Of  course  I  came,  but 
we  mustn't  lose  a  minute  on  account  of  Edith.     Hurry  1" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    I'm  not  going  back  with  you." 

"  Not  going  back  ?     "VVhy,  Neal,  of  course  you  are." 

"  Not  by  a  long  shot.  Did  you  think  I  would  ever  go 
back  there  ?" 

"  Neal !" 

Cynthia's  voice  trembled.  The  color  rose  in  her  face 
and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Neal,  you  can't  really  mean  it." 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"Then  why  did  you  send  for  me  ?" 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  see  you.  There,  don't  look  as  if 
you  were  going  to  cry,  Cynthia.    I  hate  girls  that  cry,  and 


183 


you  never  were  that  sort.  I'll  be  sorry  I  sent  for  you  if 
you  do." 

Cynthia  struggled  to  regain  her  composure.  This  was 
a  bitter  disappointment,  but  she  must  make  every  effort 
to  prevail  upon  Neal  to  yield. 

"  I'm  not  crying,"  she  said,  blinking  her  eyes  very  hard ; 
"  tell  me  what  you  mean." 

"  I  don't  mean  anything  in  particular,  except  that  I 
wanted  to  see  you  again,  perhaps  for  the  last  time."  This 
with  a  rather  tragic  air. 

«  The  last  time  ?" 

"  Yes.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  cut  loose  from  every- 
body, and  just  look  out  for  myself  after  this.  If  my  only 
sister  suspects  me  of  stealing,  I  don't  care  to  have  any- 
thing more  to  do  with  her.  I  can  easily  get  along  until 
I'm  twenty-five.  I'll  just  knock  round  and  take  things 
easily,  and  if  I  go  to  the  bad  no  one  will  care  particularly." 

"Neal,  I  had  no  idea  you  were  such  a  coward!"  ex- 
claimed Cynthia,  indignantly. 

"  Coward  !  You  had  better  look  out,  Cynthia.  I  won't 
stand  much  of  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  You've  got  to  stand  it.  I  call  you  a  coward.  You  ran 
away  like  a  boy  in  a  dime  novel,  just  because  you  couldn't 
stand  having  anything  go  wrong.  You  were  afraid  to 
brave  it  out.     Afraid  P^ 

There  was  no  suspicion  of  tears  now  in  Cynthia's  voice. 
She  knelt  in  the  canoe  very  erect  and  very  angry.  Her 
cheeks  were  crimson,  and  her  blue  eyes  had  grown  very 
dark. 

"  I  tell  you  again  to  take  care,"  said  Neal,  restraining 
his  anger  with  difl[iculty  ;  "  I  did  not  send  for  you  to  come 
down  here  and  rave  this  way." 


183 


"  And  I  never  would  have  come  if  I'd  thought  you  were 
going  to  behave  this  way.  I'm  dreadfully,  dreadfully  dis- 
appointed in  you,  Neal.  I  always  thought  you  were  a 
very  nice  boy,  and  I  was  awfully  fond  of  you — almost  as 
fond  of  you  as  I  am  of  Jack,  and  now — " 

She  broke  off  abruptly  and  looked  away  across  the 
river. 

If  Neal  was  touched  by  this  speech  he  did  not  show  it 
at  the  moment.  He  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
kickinor  the  toe  of  his  boot  ag^ainst  a  rock. 

"  Of  course  I  couldn't  stay  there,"  he  said,  presently ; 
"  your  father  as  good  as  called  me  a  thief." 

"He  didn't  at  all.  He  didn't  really  believe  you  had 
taken  the  money  until  you  ran  away.  Then,  of  course, 
every  one  thought  it  strange  that  you  went,  and  I  don't 
wonder.  And  I  couldn't  tell  how  it  really  was,  because  I 
had  promised  you  ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  keep  the  promise 
any  longer,  Neal.     I  am  going  to  tell." 

"  No,  you  can't.  You've  promised,  and  I  won't  release 
you.  I  am  not  going  to  demean  myself  by  explaining ; 
they  ought  to  have  believed  in  me.  But  I  wish  you 
would  stop  scolding,  Cynthia,  and  come  up  here  on  the 
bank.  I  can't  talk  while  you  are  swinging  round  there 
with  the  current." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  Cynthia  comphed  with  his 
request.  It  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  she  could  ac- 
complish more  by  persuasion  than  by  wrath.  Neal  drew 
up  the  boat  and  they  sat  down  under  the  tree. 

*'  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?"  asked  Cynthia. 

"  In  Boston,  first.  I've  been  staying  with  several  fel- 
lows. I  gave  out  that  I  was  going  to  Philadelphia,  for  I 
thought  you  would  be  looking  for  me,  and  it  is  true,  for  I 


184 


am  going,  some  time  soon.  Then  I  went  to  Roxbury,  and 
yesterday  I  walked  out  from  there  and  found  that  little 
shaver  to  take  the  note  to  you." 

"  Have  you  told  your  friends  that  you  ran  away  ?" 

"No.  Why  should  I?  Fortunately  I  took  enough 
clothes,  though  these  are  beginning  to  look  a  little  shabby. 
I  spent  last  night  in  a  shed.  I've  only  got  a  little  money 
left,  but  it  will  answer  until  I  get  something  to  do." 

"  Neal,  do  you  know  you  are  just  breaking  mamma's 
heart?" 

Neal  said  nothing. 

"  She  has  looked  so  awfully  ever  since  you  left,  and  she 
wrote  to  you  in  Philadelphia  and  papa  went  on,  but  we 
had  to  send  for  him  to  come  back  on  account  of  Edith." 

*'  What  about  Edith  ?" 

"  Oh,  didn't  I  tell  you  ?  Edith  had  a  fearful  accident 
yesterday.  She  was  driving  with — she  went  to  drive,  and 
was  thrown  out  and  was  terribly  hurt." 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  Neal,  with  real  concern  in 
his  voice ;  "  how  did  it  happen  ?  Was  it  one  of  your 
horses  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Cynthia,  hurrying  over  that  part  of  it,  for 
she  did  not  want  Neal  to  know  that  Edith  had  been  with 
Bronson  ;  "  but  she  was  very  much  hurt,  Neal.  She  was 
unconscious  nearly  all  night,  and  the  doctor  thought  per- 
haps she — she  would  die." 

A  great  sob  rose  in  Cynthia's  throat,  and  this  time  Neal 
did  not  reprove  her  for  it.  Instead,  he  expressed  his  re- 
gret and  his  sympathy  with  such  real  feeling  in  his  voice 
that  Cynthia  broke  down  altogether. 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  so  dreadful !"  she  cried  ;  "  Edith  so  terri- 
bly hurt — dying,  perhaps — and  mamma  looking  as  if  she 


^ 


I 


185 


were  in  perfect  despair,  and  you  away.  Oli,  Neal,  won't 
you  come  back?     Won't  you  please  come  back?" 

Neal  rose  abruptly,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
little  clearing. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Cynthia,"  he  remonstrated ; 
"  I've  told  you  I  couldn't,  and  you  ought  not  to  ask  me. 
I'm  awfully  sorry  about  Edith,  and  I'm  sorry  Hessie  feels 
so  badly  about  me.  I'll  give  in  about  one  thing.  You 
can  tell  her  you  have  seen  me  and  I  am  well.  You  needn't 
say  I'm  going  to  the  bad,  but  very  likely  I  shall.  You 
mustn't  say  a  word  about  having  lent  me  the  money ;  I 
will  not  have  that  explained.    There,  it  has  begun  to  rain." 

A  few  big  drops  came  pattering  down,  falling  with  loud 
splashes  into  the  river. 

"  Oh,  I  must  hurry  back !"  exclaimed  Cynthia,  hastily 
drying  her  eyes. 

"  It's  only  going  to  be  a  shower.  Come  up  here  where 
the  trees  are  thicker  and  wait  till  it  is  over.  See,  it's  all 
bright  over  there." 

Cynthia  looked  in  the  direction  indicated,  and  seeing  a 
streak  of  cloud  that  was  somewhat  lighter  than  the  rest, 
concluded  to  wait.  Perhaps  she  could  yet  prevail  upon 
Neal  to  come. 

They  went  into  the  woods  a  short  distance,  and  though 
there  were  not  many  leaves  upon  the  trees  as  yet,  they 
were  more  protected  than  in  the  open.  It  was  raining 
hard  now. 

"  Neal,"  said  Cynthia,  in  her  gentlest  tones,  "  when  you 
have  thought  it  over  a  little  more  I  am  sure  you  will  agree 
with  me.     Indeed,  you  ought  to  come." 

"  I  have  done  nothing  else  but  think  it  over,  and  I  tell 
you  I  am  not  coming,  Cynthia.     I  wish  you  wouldn't  say 


186 


any  more.  I  sent  for  you  because  I  wanted  to  see  you 
once  more,  and  now  you're  spoiling  it  all.  I  don't  believe 
you  care  a  bit  about  me." 

"  Oh,  Ncal,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  You  know  I  do  care, 
very  mucli.  I'm  awfully  disappointed  in  you,  that's  all. 
I  always  thought  you  were  brave  and  good  and  would  do 
things  you  ought  to  do,  even  when  you  didn't  want  to.  It 
does  seem  selfish  to  stay  away  and  make  mamma  feel  so 
badly,  when  it  would  only  be  necessary  to  come  home  and 
say  you  had  borrowed  the  money  of  me,  to  make  every- 
thing all  right.  It  seems  very  selfish  indeed,  but  perhaps 
I  am  mistaken.  I  dare  say  I'm  very  selfish  myself  and 
have  no  right  to  preach  to  you,  but  if  you  could  see  mam- 
ma I'm  sure  you  would  feel  as  I  do." 

Neal  remained  silent. 

"  But  I  still  have  faith  in  you,"  continued  Cynthia.  "  I 
think  some  day  you  will  see  it  as  I  do.  I  am  sure  you 
will.  Oh,  dear,  how  wet  it  is  getting !  I  ought  to  have 
gone  home." 

The  rain  was  coming  down  in  torrents.  The  ground 
was  wet  and  soggy,  and  their  feet  sank  in  the  drenched 
leaves.  The  canoe,  drawn  up  on  the  bank,  was  full  of 
water. 

"  I  ought  to  have  gone  home.  It  is  going  to  rain  all 
day,  and  mamma  will  be  so  worried.  It's  not  going  to 
clear ;  that  bright  streak  is  all  gone." 

The  clouds  had  settled  down  heavily,  and  there  was  no 
prospect  whatever  of  the  rain  stopping. 

"  I  must  go  right  away  ;  I  am  wet  through  now.  Oh, 
Neal,  if  you  would  only  go  with  me  I  Won't  you  go, 
Neal,  dear?" 

But  Neal  shook  his  head. 


187 


"  Very  well ;  then  it  is  good-bye.  But  remember  what 
I  said,  Neal.  It's  your  own  fault  that  the  family  think 
you  took  it.  And  if  mamma  or  any  one  ever  asks  me  any 
questions  about  what  I  am  going  to  do  with  Aunt  Betsey's 
present  I'm  not  going  to  pretend  anything.  If  they  choose 
to  find  out  I  lent  it  to  you  they  can.  You  won't  say  I 
can  tell  them,  so  of  course  I  can't  do  it,  as  I  promised, 
but  I  sha'n't  prevent  their  finding  it  out.  Oh,  Neal,  do, 
do  come  !" 

She  stood  in  front  of  him  and  put  her  hands  on  his  wet 
coat-sleeve.     Neal's  voice  was  husky  when  he  spoke. 

"  I'm  a  brute,  Cynth,  I  know,  but  I  can't  give  in.  You 
don't  know  how  hard  it  is  for  me  ever  to  give  in.  I'll  re- 
member what  you  said.  Please  shake  hands  for  good-bye 
to  me,  if  you  don't  think  I'm  too  mean  and  selfish  and 
heartless  and  a  coward  and  everything  else  you've  said." 

"Oh,  Neall"  cried  Cynthia,  as  she  grasped  his  hand  with 
both  of  hers,  "  some  day  I'm  sure  you  will  come.  Good- 
bye, Neal." 

They  turned  over  the  canoe,  which  was  full  of  rain- 
water, and  then  Cynthia  embarked.  Suddenly  an  idea  oc- 
curred to  her ;  she  would  make  one  more  effort. 

"Neal,  you  will  have  to  go  part  way  with  me.  I'm 
really  afraid  to  go  alone.  It  is  raining  so  hard  the  boat 
will  fill  up,  and  it  will  take  me  so  long  to  go  alone.  I'm 
afraid,  Neal." 

Neal  could  not  resist  this  very  feminine  appeal.  He 
hesitated,  and  then  got  in  and  took  the  extra  paddle. 

"  I'll  go  part  way,  Cynthia,  but  I  won't  go  home.  Of 
course  I  can't  let  you  go  off  alone  if  you're  afraid.  I 
never  knew  you  to  be  so  before." 

With  long,  vigorous  strokes  they  were  soon  pulling  up- 


188 


stream.  Occasionally  one  of  tliem  would  stop  and  bail 
with  the  big  sponge,  kept  in  the  boat  for  emergencies. 

The  rain  splashed  into  the  river,  and  the  dull  gray- 
stream  seemed  to  run  more  swiftly  than  usual.  It  looked 
very  different  from  its  wont.  Cynthia  and  Neal,  many 
times  as  they  had  been  together  on  the  Charles,  had  never 
before  been  there  in  a  storm.  One  could  scarcely  believe 
it  to  be  the  cheerful,  peaceful  little  river  on  which  they 
had  passed  so  many  happy  hours, 

"Everything  is  changed,"  thought  Cynthia*,  "even  my 
own  river  is  different.  Will  things  ever  be  the  same  again  ? 
Oh,  if  Neal  will  only  give  in  when  we  get  near  home  I" 


CHAPTEK  XYI 

But  Neal  would  not  "give  in."  Cynthia's  renewed 
entreaties  were  of  no  more  avail  than  they  had  been 
before. 

"  I  will  not  come,"  he  repeated  again  and  again ;  and 
at  last  Cynthia  gave  up  asking. 

He  got  out  of  the  canoe  just  below  the  Oaldeigh  land- 
ing, and  where  he  was  hidden  from  the  house. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  be  ill,  Cynthia,"  he  said.  "  I  am  sorry 
I  made  you  come  out  such  a  day ;  it  will  be  my  fault  if 
you  take  cold.  One  more  bad  thing  I  have  done.  My 
life  isn't  a  bit  of  good,  anyhow ;  I've  a  good  mind  to  go 
and  drown  myself — I'm  half  drowned  now." 

He  laughed,  somewhat  bitterly,  as  he  looked  down  at 
his  drenched  clothes. 

"  Cynthia,  I'm  a  brute.  Hurry  in  and  change  your 
things.  I'm  off  to  Pelham ;  I'll  take  a  train  there  for 
Boston.  I'll  let  you  know  where  I  go  ;  and  I  say,  Cynth, 
won't  you  write  to  a  fellow  now  and  then?  I  don't  de- 
serve it,  I  know,  but  I'd  like  to  hear  from  you,  and  I'll 
want  to  know  how  Edith  gets  along." 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  let  me  know  your  address.  Good-bye, 
Neal,"  she  said,  sadly. 

"  Good-byo." 

He  stood  and  watched  her.  She  rounded  the  curve 
where  the  boat-house  was  and  waved  her  hand  as  she  dis- 
appeared.    She  was  only  a  few  yards  away,  and  yet  he 


190 


could  no  longer  see  lier.  He  could  easily  imagine  how  it 
would  all  be. 

A  man  would  come  down  from  the  barn  and  help  her 
with  the  canoe.  She  would  go  up  the  hill  and  follow  the 
path  to  the  side  door  behind  the  conservatory.  There 
would  be  exclamations  of  dismay  when  she  came  in,  all 
dripping  wet.  Hester  and  the  servants  would  hurry  to 
help  her,  and  she  would  be  thoroughly  dried  and  warmed  ; 
his  sister  would  see  to  that — his  sister,  who  thought  him 
no  better  than  a  common  thief ! 

And  then  Cynthia  would  tell  how  she  had  met  him,  and 
that  he  would  not  come  home.  How  astonished  Hester 
would  be  to  hear  that  he  was  so  near.  He  turned  abruptly 
when  he  thought  of  this,  and  sprang  up  the  bank  to  the 
road  that  lay  between  Brenton  and  Pelham.  He  crossed 
the  bridge,  and  with  one  more  look  at  the  dark  river, 
struck  out  at  a  good  pace  for  Pelham,  the  nearest  railway 
station. 

He  glanced  back  once  at  the  chimneys  and  white  walls 
of  Oakleigh  when  he  reached  the  spot  from  which  they 
could  be  seen  for  the  last  time  on  the  Pelham  road.  Then, 
bidding  good-bye  to  his  past  life,  he  hastened  on. 

The  road  that  runs  from  Brenton  to  Pelham  is  very 
straight  after  one  has  passed  Oakleigh.  There  are  but 
few  houses — nothing  but  meadows,  trees,  and  bushes  on 
either  side.  Neal,  tramping  over  the  broad  expanse  of 
gray  mud,  had  nothing  to  distract  his  mind  from  the 
thoughts  that  filled  it.  At  first  they  were  very  desperate 
ones. 

"Cynthia  had  no  right  to  come  and  rant  the  way  she 
did.  The  idea  of  calling  me  a  coward,  and  telling  me  I 
was  like  a  boy  in  a  dime  novel  because  I  ran  away !     It 


191 


was  the  only  thing;  to  do.  They  had  no  business  to  suspect 
me.  They — confound  it !  I  won't  put  up  with  such  treat- 
ment. I'll  stick  to  ray  resolution  and  drop  the  whole 
concern.  What  a  long,  straight  road  this  is,  and  how  I 
hate  the  rain !" 

At  last  he  reached  the  end  of  it  and  entered  the  little 
town  of  Pelham,  uninteresting  at  the  best  of  times,  and 
doubly  so  on  such  a  day  as  this.  The  inhabitants  were 
all  within  doors ;  not  even  a  dog  was  stirring, 

"Every  one  is  dry  and  comfortable  but  me,"  thought 
Neal,  miserably,  as  he  went  into  the  station. 

Fortunately,  the  next  train  for  Boston  was  soon  due,  and 
it  did  not  take  long  for  him  to  reach  the  friend's  house  in 
one  of  the  suburbs  at  which  he  had  left  his  possessions. 

A  merry  party  was  staying  there  for  the  Easter  holi- 
days, and  Neal  was  the  subject  of  much  speculation  and 
concern  when  he  appeared,  weary  and  wet,  in  their  midst. 
Every  one  supposed  that  he  had  gone  to  Brenton  to  visit 
his  sister,  and  they  wondered  why  he  had  come  back  on 
such  a  stormy  day. 

Though  the  story  of  Neal  was  well  known  in  Brenton, 
oddly  enough  it  had  not  yet  reached  his  friends  in  Boston, 
and  he  did  not  enlighten  them.  He  went  to  his  room 
and  stayed  there  for  several  hours.  With  dry  clothes  he 
came  into  a  better  frame  of  mind. 

Poor  little  Cynthia!  How  good  she  was  to  come  to 
meet  him  such  a  day,  when  she  must  have  wanted  to  stay 
with  Edith.  And  how  badly  she  felt  about  him ;  much 
more  so  than  he  deserved.  He  was  not  worth  it.  How 
she  had  fired  up  when  she  told  him  that  he  was  a  coward  I 
He  must  prove  to  her  that  he  was  not.  He  would  never 
give  in  and  go  back  there,  never!     But  there  were  other 


192 


ways  of  proving  it ;  lie  could  go  to  work  and  stow  lier 
tliat  he  was  made  of  good  stuff  after  all.  He  should  not 
have  frightened  Cynthia  by  saying  that  he  would  "  go  to 
the  bad."  But,  then,  he  had  been  abominably  treated. 
He  could  not  go  to  college  now,  for  he  would  never  ac- 
cept it  from  Hessie,  who  had  been  willing  to  believe  he 
took  the  money.  He  lashed  himself  into  a  fury  again  as 
he  thought  of  it.  He  was  utterly  unreasonable,  but  of 
course  he  was  quite  unconscious  of  being  so. 

Finally  the  better  thoughts  came  uppermost  again,  and 
he  decided  what  to  do.  He  would  go  to  Philadelphia  and 
ask  his  guardian  to  put  him  in  the  way  of  getting  some 
work.  He  would  tell  him  the  whole  story.  Fortunately, 
he  did  not  remember  that  Cynthia  had  said  her  father 
went  to  Philadelphia ;  if  he  had  he  would  not  have  gone, 
thinking  that  his  guardian  would  have  been  prejudiced 
against  him  by  his  brother-in-law. 

He  packed  his  valise  and  started  that  night,  though 
his  friends  urged  him  to  stay  longer.  He  felt  a  feverish 
impatience  to  be  off  and  have  things  settled.  With  it 
was  a  feeling  of  excitement ;  he  was  going  to  seek  his 
fortune.  Thrown  upon  a  cold  world  by  the  unkind  and 
unjust  suspicions  of  his  nearest  relatives,  he  would  rise 
above  adverse  circumstances  and  "  ennoble  fate  by  nobly 
bearing  it!" 

It  was  a  very  heroic  martyr  that  bought  a  ticket  for 
Philadelphia  that  night. 

He  did  not  engage  a  berth  in  the  sleeping-car ;  he  was 
a  poor  man  now  and  must  begin  to  economize.  Besides, 
upon  counting  his  money  he  found  that  he  had  but  just 
enough  with  which  to  reach  his  destination. 

He  was  very  tired  with  the  adventures  of  the  last  two 


193 


days,  and  tlie  night  before,  spent  in  a  slied,  had  not  been 
comfortable,  so  he  slept  well,  notwithstanding  the  fact 
that  he  was  not  in  a  Pullman  sleeper.  He  did  not  wake 
until  it  Y/as  broad  daylight,  and  the  train  was  speeding 
along  through  New  Jersey.  The  storm  was  over,  the  sun 
was  shining  down  upon  a  bright  and  rain-washed  world, 
and  Neal  Gordon  was  entering  upon  a  new  life. 

"  So  this  is  the  '  Quaker  City,' "  he  thought,  as  the 
train  glided  over  the  bridges  and  into  the  huge  station. 
"  I  wonder  if  every  one  is  in  a  broad-brimmed  hat !  And 
now  to  find  cousin  William  Carpenter.  He's  a  Quaker  of 
the  Quakers,  I  suppose ;  I  can  never  get  into  the  habit  of 
saying  '  thee '  and  '  thou.' " 

He  did  not  see  much  of  the  Quaker  element  in  the  busy 
station,  nor  when  he  went  down -stairs  and  out  on  to 
Broad  Street.  He  was  on  the  point  of  jumping  into  a 
hansom  to  be  driven  to  his  cousin's  house,  when  he  re- 
membered that  he  had  not  a  cent  in  his  pocket  with  which 
to  pay  for  it.     It  was  a  novel  experience  for  Neal. 

He  inquired  the  way  to  Arch  Street,  and  found  that  it 
was  not  very  far  from  where  he  was,  and  he  soon  reached 
the  designated  number. 

"  Not  a  broad-brimmer  have  I  seen  yet,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  pulled  the  bell -handle.  He  looked  up  and 
down  the  street  while  he  waited.  It  was  wider  than  some 
that  he  had  passed  through,  and  rather  quiet  except  for  the 
jingling  horse- cars.  It  was  very  straight,  and  lined  with 
red  brick  houses  with  white  marble  steps  and  heavy  wood- 
en shutters. 

He  looked  down,  as  he  stood  on  the  dazzling  steps,  at  his 
boots  splashed  with  Boston  mud,  and  he  shuddered  at  the 
effect  they  might  have  on  his  cousins.     He  should  have 

13 


194 


had  tliem  cleaned  at  the  station ;  but,  then,  he  did  not 
have  five  cents  to  spend. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  he  walked  into  the  parlor  and 
sent  up  his  card.  It  was  a  large  room  with  very  little  fur- 
niture in  it,  and  the  few  chairs  and  sofas  that  there  were 
stood  stiffly  apart.  Not  an  ornament  was  to  be  seen  but 
a  large  clock  that  ticked  slowly  and  sedately  on  the  mar- 
ble mantel-piece.  There  were  no  curtains,  but  "  Venetian 
blinds,"  formed  of  green  slats,  hung  at  the  windows.  It 
all  looked  very  neat  and  very  bare,  and  extremely  stiff. 

It  was  not  long  before  Neal  heard  a  step  in  the  hall,  and 
an  elderly  man  entered  the  room.  He  was  very  tall,  and 
wore  a  long,  quaint-looking  coat  that  flapped  as  he  walked. 
His  face  was  smooth,  and  of  a  calm,  benign  expression 
that  Neal  afterwards  found  was  never  known  to  vary.  He 
came  in  with  outstretched  hand. 

"Thee  is  Neal  Gordon.  I  am  pleased  to  meet  thee 
ao-ain,  cousin.  Come  up-stairs  to  breakfast;  Rachel  will 
be  glad  to  see  thee." 

Who  Rachel  was  Neal  could  not  imagine,  as  he  followed 
his  host  up  a  short  flight  of  stairs  to  the  breakfast-room. 
He  supposed  she  must  be  a  young  daughter  of  the  house, 
for  although  William  Carpenter  was  both  his  kinsman  and 
his  guardian,  the  relationship  had  until  now  been  mere- 
ly nominal,  and  Neal  knew  very  little  about  him  or  his 
family. 

Sitting  at  the  table,  behind  the  tall  silver  urn  and  the 
cups  and  saucers,  was  an  old  lady  in  a  close  white  cap  and 
spectacles.  A  snowy  kerchief  of  some  fine  white  material 
was  folded  about  her  shoulders  over  a  gray  dress.  Her 
face,  also,  was  calm  and  sweet,  and  wore  the  same  expres- 
sion as  did  her  husband's. 


195 


"  Rachel/'  said  he,  "  this  is  our  cousin,  Neal  Gordon. 
Neal,  this  is  my  wife,  Rachel." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  Neal,"  she  said,  extending  her 
hand  without  rising;  "  sit  down.  Thee'll  be  glad  to  have 
a  cup  of  coffee,  doubtless,  if  thee's  just  arrived  from  the 
train,  as  thee  has  the  look  of  doing."  This  with  a  glance 
at  his  travel-stained  clothes. 

Neal,  very  conscious  of  his  muddy  boots,  thanked  her, 
and  sat  down  at  the  table,  where  a  neat-looking  servant 
had  made  ready  a  place  for  him.  It  seemed  funny  that 
they  took  his  arrival  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  he  sup- 
posed that  was  the  Quaker  way.  At  any  rate,  they  were 
very  kind,  and  it  was  the  best  breakfast  he  ever  ate.  Even 
if  he  had  not  been  so  hungry,  the  coffee  would  have  been 
delicious,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  too. 

His  cousins  asked  him  no  questions,  but  after  break- 
fast he  was  shown  to  a  room  and  told  to  make  himself 
comfortable. 

"But  I  would  like  to  speak  to  you,  sir,"  he  said  to  his 
host — "  that  is,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  came  on  to  Philadel- 
phia on  business."     This  with  a  rather  grand  air. 

"  Verily,"  said  William  Carpenter ;  "  but  I  have  no  time 
now.  I  go  to  my  office  every  day  at  this  hour.  Thee  can 
come  with  me  if  thee  wishes,  and  we  will  converse  there." 

Neal  agreed,  and  hastily  brushing  his  clothes  and  giv- 
ing a  dab  to  his  boots  he  set  out,  much  amused  at  the 
new  company  in  which  he  found  himself.  Mr.  Carpenter 
wore  a  tall  beaver  hat,  of  wide  brim  and  ancient  shape, 
which  he  never  removed  from  his  head,  even  though  he 
met  one  or  two  ladies  who  bowed  to  him. 

"  They  don't  all  seem  to  be  Quakers,  though,"  thought 
Neal,  as,  leaving  Arch  Street,  they  took  their  way  across 


196 


the  city,  and  met  and  passed  many  people  of  as  worldly 
an  aspect  as  any  to  be  seen  in  Boston — in  fact,  his  com- 
panion's broad-brimmed  hat  seemed  sadly  out  of  place. 

The  houses  too  were  different  in  this  locality.  Easter 
flowers  bloomed  in  the  windows  between  handsome  cur- 
tains, and  there  were  not  so  many  white  shutters  and  mar- 
ble steps  —  in  fact,  with  a  street -band  playing  on  the 
corner  and  the  merry  peal  of  chimes  that  rang  from  a 
neighboring  steeple,  it  seemed  quite  a  gay  little  town, 
thought  Neal,  with  condescension. 

His  cousin  pointed  out  the  sights  as  they  walked. 

"  There  are  the  public  buildings,"  he  said,  "  and  be- 
yond is  the  great  store  of  John  Wanamaker.  This  is 
Chestnut  Street,  and  yonder  is  the  Mint.  Thee  will  go 
there  and  to  Independence  Hall  while  thee  is  here,  and 
to  Girard  College — that  is,  if  thee  has  a  proper  amount  of 
public  spirit,  as  I  hope  to  be  the  case." 

Neal  humbly  acquiesced,  and  then  remarked  upon  the 
distance  of  his  cousin's  place  of  business  from  his  house. 

"  Do  you  always  walk  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Always.  I  have  found  that  exercise  is  good,  and  the 
car-fare  worth  saving.  'A  penny  saved  is  a  penny  gained,' 
I  have  made  my  motto  through  life,  and  for  that  reason  I 
have  never  known  want.  I  hope  thee  is  neither  extrava- 
gant nor  lazy  ?" 

This  with  a  keen,  shrewd,  not  unkindly  glance  from  be- 
neath the  level,  gray  eyebrows. 

Neal  colored  and  hoped  he  was  not,  knowing  all  the 
time  that  these  were  two  serious  faults  of  his. 

They  had  passed  through  the  fashionable  part  of  the 
city,  and  were  walking  down  a  narrow,  low -built  street. 
In  the  distance  was  a  huge  space  filled  with  great  piles  of 


I  HOPE  THEE  IS  NEITHER  EXTRAVAGANT  NOR  LAZY 


197 


boards  that  came  far  up  above  the  high  fence  which  sur- 
rounded the  whole  square. 

*'  This  is  my  oflSce,"  said  Mr.  Carpenter,  as  he  opened 
the  door  of  a  small,  low  building  in  the  corner  of  the  great 
yard.     "  I  am  in  the  lumber  business." 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could  say  any  more  to  his 
cousin.  There  were  letters  to  be  opened,  his  head-clerk 
to  be  interviewed,  men  to  be  directed. 

Neal  sat  at  a  window  that  looked  out  on  the  yard,  and 
watched  some  men  that  were  loading  a  huge  dray.  There 
were  boards,  boards,  boards  everywhere.  How  tired  he 
should  get  of  lumber  if  he  had  to  stay  here.  He  hoped 
that  his  business,  whatever  it  might  prove  to  be,  would  be 
more  exciting,  and  more  in  the  heart  of  things  than  this 
remote  lumber-yard.  He  thought  from  what  he  had  heard 
that  he  would  like  to  be  a  stock-broker,  as  long  as  he  was 
barred  out  of  the  professions  by  not  going  through 
college. 

He  was  just  imagining  himself  on  'Change,  in  the  midst 
of  an  eager  crowd  of  other  successful  brokers,  a  panic  im- 
minent, and  he  alone  cool  and  self-possessed,  when  his 
cousin's  voice  rudely  interrupted  his  revery.  It  sounded 
calmer  than  ever  in  contrast  to  Neal's  day-dream. 

"  Cousin,  if  thee  will  come  into  my  private  office  I  wiK 
listen  to  thee  for  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes." 

Neal  obeyed,  but  found  it  difficult  to  begin  his  story. 
It  is  a  very  hard  thing  to  tell  a  man  that  you  are  suspected 
of  being  a  thief. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  know,"  he  began,  rather 
haltingly,  "that  I — that — in  fact,  I've  left  Hester  for  good 
and  all.  You  are  my  guardian,  so  you  must  know  all 
about  that  conf — that  abom — that — er,  well,  that  will  of 


198 


my  grandmother's.  Hester  didn't  give  me  a  large  enough 
allowance — at  least,  I  didn't  think  it  was  enough — and  I  got 
into  debt  at  school.  It  was  not  very  much  of  a  debt  for 
a  fellow  with  such  a  rich  sister." 

He  paused,  rather  taken  aback  by  the  quick  glance  that 
was  shot  at  him  from  the  mild  blue  eyes  of  his  Quaker 
cousin. 

"  What  does  thee  call  '  not  much '  ?" 

"  A  hundred  dollars.  I  knew  they  would  think  it  a  lot, 
so  I  only  told  Hessie  and  John  fifty,  and  she  gave  it  to 
me.  Afterwards  the  fellow  I  owed  it  to  came  down  on 
me  for  the  rest,  and  wrote  to  John,  Hessie's  husband.  In 
the  meantime  I  had  got  hold  of  some  money  in  a  'per- 
fectly fair  ^  honorable  way,  and  sent  it  to  the  fellow,  and  he 
wrote  again  to  John  Franklin  and  said  I  had  paid  up. 
Then,  just  because  a  present  one  of  the  Franklin  children 
expected  at  that  time  didn't  come,  they  accused  me  of 
taking  it.  They  had  no  earthly  reason  for  supposing  it 
except  that  I  paid  fifty  dollars  in  gold  for  the  money- 
order  I  sent,  and  the  child's  present  was  fifty  dollars  in 
gold." 

"  And  where  did  thee  get  the  money  V 

The  question  came  so  quietly  and  naturally  that  Neal 
was  taken  unawares,  and  answered  before  he  thought. 

"  Cynthia  Franklin  lent  it  to  me.  I  hated  to  borrow  of 
a  girl,  and  I  made  her  promise  not  to  tell ;  afterwards  I 
was  glad  I  had.  If  they  choose  to  suspect  me,  I'm  not 
going  to  lower  myself  by  explaining.  And  I  will  ask  you, 
as  a  particular  favor,  cousin  William,  not  to  tell  any  one. 
I  didn't  mean  to  mention  it." 

His  cousin  merely  bowed,  and  asked  him  to  com 
tinue. 


199 


"  Well,  there's  not  much  more,  except  that  I  was  sus- 
pended from  school  before  that  for  a  scrape  I  wasn't  in, 
and  it  put  everybody  against  me,  and  now  I  want  to  get 
something  to  do.  I  am  going  to  support  myself,  and  I 
thought  I'd  come  to  you,  as  you're  my  guardian  and  a 
cousin,  and  perhaps  you  would  help  me." 

"  Did  thee  know  that  thy  brother-in-law,  John  Franklin, 
was  here  within  a  few  days  ?" 

Neal  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  He  was !  Then  he  told  you  all  this.  I  might  have 
known  it  I" 

*'  Thee  may  as  well  remain  calm,  Neal.  Thee  will  gain 
nothing  in  this  world  by  giving  vent  to  undue  excitement. 
John  Franklin  told  me  nothing,  except  that  thee  had  left 
his  home,  and  he  had  supposed  thee  was  with  me.  He 
did  not  tell  me  of  the  gold,  but  he  did  say  he  feared  thee 
was  extravagant,  in  which  I  agree  with  him.  Thee  has 
nothing  to  find  fault  with  in  what  he  said." 

Neal  felt  rather  ashamed  of  himself.  After  all,  it  had 
been  generous  in  his  brother-in-law  not  to  prejudice  his 
guardian  against  him. 

"  And  now  what  does  thee  wish  to  do  ?"  asked  the  old 
man,  as  he  looked  at  his  large  gold-faced  watch. 

"  I  want  to  get  some  work,"  replied  Neal. 

"  Is  thee  willing  to  take  anything  thee  can  get  ?" 

"Yes,  almost  anything,"  with  a  hasty  glance  at  the 
piles  of  lumber  without. 

"Does  thee  know  that  times  are  hard,  and  it  is  almost 
impossible  for  even  young  men  of  experience  to  get  a 
situation,  while  thee  is  but  a  boy  2" 

"  Ye-es.     I  suppose  so." 

"  Thee  need  not  expect  much  salary." 


200 


*'No,  only  enough  to  live  on.  I'm  going  to  be  very 
economical." 

William  Carpenter  smiled,  and  looked  at  the  boy  kindly. 
He  w^as  silent  for  a  iew  minutes,  and  then  he  said : 

"  Neal,  as  thee  is  my  ward  and  also  my  cousin,  I  am 
willing  to  make  a  place  for  thee  here.  We  can  give  thee 
but  a  small  stipend,  but  it  is  better  than  nothing  for  one 
who  is  anxious  for  work,  as  thee  says  thee  is.  Thee  will 
not  have  board  and  lodging  to  pay  for,  however,  as  thee 
can  make  thy  home  with  Kachel  and  myself.  Our  boy, 
had  he  lived,  would  have  been  about  thy  age." 

This  was  said  calmly,  with  no  suspicion  of  emotion.  It 
was  simply  the  statement  of  a  fact. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  cousin  William,  you  are  very  kind ! 
But — do  you  think  I  could  ever  learn  the  lumber  business  ? 
It — it  seems  so — well,  I  don't  exactly  see  what  there  is  to 
do." 

"  Thee  is  too  hasty,  by  far.  Thee  could  not  be  expected 
to  know  the  business  before  thee  has  set  foot  in  the  yard. 
But  thee  must  learn  first  that  it  is  well  to  make  the  most 
of  every  opportunity  that  comes  to  hand.  Will  thee,  or 
will  thee  not,  come  into  my  home  and  my  employ  ?  It  is 
the  best  I  can  do  for  thee." 

And  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  and  one  wild  regret 
for  the  lost  pleasures  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  Neal  agreed 
to  do  it. 

It  was  thus  he  began  his  business  life» 


CHAPTER  XVn 

With  dripping  clothes  and  a  sad  heart  Cynthia  went  up 
to  the  house  after  Neal  had  left  her.  She  was  bitterly- 
disappointed  and  extremely  uncomfortable.  Her  hair, 
never  very  securely  fastened,  had  fallen  down  and  lay  in  a 
wet  mass  about  her  face  and  neck ;  her  hat  felt  heavy  as 
lead,  and  water  oozed  from  her  shoes  as  she  walked. 

"  Nothing  will  ever  be  right  again,"  she  thought,  as  she 
gave  a  depressed  glance  at  all  the  familiar  objects  on  the 
place.  "  I  feel  as  if  it  were  going  to  rain  forever,  and  the 
sun  would  never  shine  again.  It  would  have  been  so  dif- 
ferent if  Neal  had  only  come  home !" 

Mrs.  Franklin  was  thankful  to  see  her  appear,  and  re- 
frained from  reproaching  her  until  she  had  been  thoroughly 
dried  and  warmed.     Then  all  she  said  was : 

"  I  thought  you  would  never  come,  Cynthia  !  Was  it 
worth  while  to  go  on  the  river  such  a  morning  as  this  ?" 

"  No,  mamma,  but  you  will  forgive  me  when  you  hear 
why  I  went,"  said  Cynthia,  setting  down  the  cup  of  ginger- 
tea  which  Mary  Ann  had  made  so  hot  and  so  strong  that 
she  could  scarcely  swallow  it ;  "  but  tell  me  how  Edith  is, 
first." 

"She  is  about  the  same.  She  seems  anxious  about 
something.  She  is  restless  and  uneasy,  but  it  is  difficult 
for  her  to  speak.  Perhaps  she  wants  you.  I  think  that 
is  it,  for  you  know  I  do  not  satisfy  her,"  added  Mrs. 
Franklin,  with  a  sigh. 


202 


Cynthia  knelt  beside  her,  and  put  her  arms  around 
her. 

"  Dear  raararaa !"  she  said,  lovingly.  Mrs.  Franklin 
rested  her  head  on  her  step-daughter's  shoulder. 

"  Cynthia,  darling,  you  are  a  great  comfort  to  me  !  Are 
you  sure  you  feel  perfectly  warm?  You  must  not  take 
cold." 

"  I'm  as  warm  as  toast.  It  won't  hurt  me  a  bit ;  you 
know  I  never  take  cold.  But  let  me  tell  you  something 
— the  reason  I  went.  You  could  never  guess !  I  went  to 
see  some  one." 

Mrs.  Franklin  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  Cynthia 
eagerly. 

"  You  can't  mean — " 

"Yes,  I  do.     Neal!" 

"  Child,  where  is  he  ?    Is  he  here  ?    Has-  he  come  back  ?" 

"  No,  mamma,"  said  Cynthia,  shaking  her  head  sadly, 
"  he  wouldn't  come.  I  begged  and  implored  him  to,  but 
he  wouldn't." 

"  Oh,  Cynthia,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  I  could  have 
made  him  come  ;  I  would  have  gone  down  on  my  knees  to 
him  !     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  Because  he  said  I  mustn't.  He  sent  me  a  note  yes- 
terday.    I  knew  he  would  never  forgive  me  if  I  told." 

"  Yesterday  !  You  knew  he  was  coming  yesterday  ? 
Cynthia,  you  ought  to  have  told  !" 

"  But,  mamma,  he  told  me  not  to,  and  I  didn't  have 
time  to  think  it  over,  for  we  were  so  frightened  with 
Edith's  accident.  It  all  came  at  once.  But  you  could 
not  have  made  him  come." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"He  has  gone  to  Pelham  to  take  the  train,  and  he  is 


203 


going  to  write  to  me,  mamma.  He  says  he — lie  is  going 
to  work." 

"  My  poor  boy  !"  said  Mrs.  Franklin,  going  to  the  win- 
dow. "  Tramping  about  the  country  such  a  day  as  this 
without  a  home !  I  wonder  if  he  has  any  money,  Cyn- 
thia?" 

"  I  don't  know,  mamma." 

Neither  of  them  remembered  that  Neal  had  wilfully  de- 
serted his  home,  and  that  it  was  entirely  his  own  fault  if 
he  had  no  money  in  his  pockets. 

"Cynthia,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin,  turning  abruptly  and 
facing  her  daughter,  "  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I 
don't  think  Neal  took  that  money.  I  cannot  believe  it.  I 
am  sure  he  got  it  in  some  other  way.  Why  do  you  look 
so  odd,  Cynthia?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  I  believe  you  know  something  about  it.     Tell  me  !" 

Still  no  answer. 

*'  Could  you  have  helped  him  in  any  way  ?  AVhere 
would  you  get  it  ?  Why,  of  course !  How  stupid  we 
have  all  been!  You  had  Aunt  Betsey's  present;  you 
never  spent  it,  you  would  not  buy  the  watch.  Cynthia, 
you  cannot  deny  it,  I  have  guessed  it !" 

The  next  moment  Mrs.  Franklin  was  enveloped  in  a  vig- 
orous hug. 

"  You  dear  darling,  I'm  so  thankful  you  have  !  He 
wouldn't  let  me  tell,  but  I  jaid  this  morning  I  wouldn't 
deny  it  if  you  happened  to  guess." 

"  Oh,  Cynthia,  though  I  said  I  didn't  believe  the  other, 
this  has  taken  a  thousand-pound  weight  from  my  heart !" 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  nurse, 
who  came  to  say  that  her  patient  was  growing  more  un- 


204 


easy,  and  she  tliougbt  some  one  had  better  come  to  her. 
At  the  same  moment  Mr.  Franklin  arrived,  so  Cynthia 
went  alone  to  her  sister. 

She  found  her  perfectly  conscious,  with  large,  wide-open 
eyes,  watching  for  her.  Edith's  head  was  bound  up,  and 
the  pretty  hands,  of  which  she  had  always  been  somewhat 
vain,  moved  restlessl3\  Cynthia  took  one  of  them  in  her 
warm,  firm  grasp,  and  leaned  over  the  bed. 

"  Dearest,  you  wanted  me,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice ; 
"  I  am  going  to  stay  with  you  now." 

But  Edith  was  not  satisfied.  She  tried  to  say  some- 
thing, but  in  so  faint  a  voice  that  Cynthia  could  not  hear. 

"  I  can't  hear  you,"  she  said,  in  distress ;  "  don't  try  to 
speak,  it  will  tire  you." 

But  still  Edith  persisted.  Cynthia  put  her  ear  close  to 
her  sister. 

"Did  you  say  '  mamma '  ?"  she  asked. 

The  great  brown  eyes  said  "  Yes." 

"  Do  you  want  her  ?" 

No,  that  was  not  it.     Cynthia  thought  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  I  know  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  You  are  sorry  about 
the  drive,  Edith,  is  that  it  ?  You  want  mamma  to  forgive 
you  ?" 

"Yes." 

Cynthia  flew  down-stairs. 

"  Mamma,  mamma !"  she  cried,  scarcely  heeding  her 
father,  whom  she  had  not  seen  before,  "  come  quickly  !  I 
have  found  out  what  Edith  wants.  She  wants  you  to  for- 
give her  for  going  to  drive,  and  you  will,  won't  you  ?" 

And  in  a  few  minutes,  satisfied,  Edith  fell  asleep  with 
her  hand  in  that  of  her  mother's. 

Many  people  came  to  inquire  for  Edith,  for  the  news  of 


205 


her  accident  spread  like  wildfire.  Cynthia  was  obliged 
to  see  them  all,  as  Editli  would  scarcely  let  her  mother  go 
out  of  her  sight.  Now  that  her  pride  bad  given  way,  sbe 
showed  how  completely  her  step  -  mother  bad  won  her 
heart,  entirely  against  her  own  will. 

Among  others  came  Gertrude  Morgan. 

"And  bow  is  your  dear  friend,  Tony  Bronson  ?"  asked 
Cynthia.  "  He  nearly  killed  Edith ;  what  did  be  do  to 
himself  ?" 

"  Ob,  he  didn't  get  very  much  hurt — at  least,  he  didn't 
show  it  much.  He  went  home  right  away.  He  thought 
he  had  better." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  he  might  have  had  the  grace  to 
come  and  inquire  for  Edith,  after  upsetting  her  in  that 
style,  and  almost  breaking  her  neck." 

"He  seemed  to  think  he  ought  to  get  home.  He 
tbought  he  might  be  a  good  deal  hurt,  only  it  didn't  come 
out  just  at  first.     He  said  there  were  inward  bruises." 

"  Inward  bruises  1"  repeated  Cyntbia,  scornfully.  "  I 
guess  the  inward  bruise  was  that  he  was  ashamed  of  him- 
self for  letting  the  horse  run  away.  Now  don't  you  really 
think  so,  Gertrude?  Don't  you  think  yourself  that  it 
was  outrageous  of  him  not  to  find  out  more  about  Edith 
before  he  went  ?" 

Gertrude  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  she  did  think 
so  ;  and,  furthermore,  she  confessed  that  her  brother  Den- 
nis was  so  enraged  at  Bronson's  conduct  that  he  declared 
he  should  never  be  asked  there  asrain 

"  I'm  glad  of  it  1"  declared  Cynthia,  emphatically.  "  It's 
about -time  you  all  found  out  what  a  cad  that  Bronson 
is.  If  you  knew  as  much  as  I  know  about  him  you  would 
have  come  to  that  conclusion  loner  asfo." 


206 


"  Oh,  of  course  you  are  prejudiced  by  Neal  Gordon  !  I 
wouldn't  take  his  word  for  anything.  By-the-way,  have 
you  seen  him  lately  ?'' 

"  Yes,  very  lately.  He  came  out  to  Brenton  the  other 
day." 

"  Did  he  really  ?"  cried  Gertrude,  curiously.  "  I  thought 
he  was  never  coming  back.  The  last  story  was  that  your 
father  had  turned  him  out-of-doors." 

"How  perfectly  absurd!  I  should  think  you  knew 
enough  about  us  to  contradict  that,  Gertrude !  Will  you 
please  tell  every  one  there  is  no  truth  in  it  at  all?" 

"But  where  is  he  now?  Is  he  here?  AVhy  has  no- 
body seen  him  ?     Wasn't  any  of  it  true  ?" 

"  Dear  me,  Gertrude,  you  are  nothing  but  a  big  interro- 
gation point !"  laughed  Cynthia,  who  had  no  intention  of 
replying  to  any  of  these  questions ;  and  Gertrude,  baffled 
and  somewhat  ashamed  of  herself,  soon  took  her  departure 
without  having  learned  anything  beyond  the  fact  that  Neal 
had  lately  been  in  town  and,  as  she  supposed,  at  his  sister's. 

Aunt  Betsey  came  from  Wayborough  as  soon  as  she 
heard  of  what  had  happened.  It  was  her  first  visit  there 
since  the  death  of  Silas  Green,  and  naturally  she  was 
much  affected. 

"  Cynthy,  my  dear,"  she  said,  after  talking  about  him 
for  some  time  to  her  nieces,  "  let  me  give  you  a  word  of 
warning:  Never  put  off  till  to-morrow  what  can  be  done 
to-day  !  It  is  a  good  proverb,  and  worth  remembrance. 
If  I  hadn't  put  off  and  put  off,  and  been  so  unwilling  to 
give  up  my  view,  I  might  have  made  Silas's  last  years 
happier.  Perhaps  he'd  have  been  here  yet  if  I'd  been 
with  him  to  take  care  of  him.  Oh,  one  has  to  give  up — 
one  has  to  give  up  in  this  world !" 


J 


207 


They  were  in  Edith's  room,  and  Edith,  listening,  felt 
that  Aunt  Betsey  was  right.  She,  too,  had  learned — many, 
many  years  earlier  in  life  than  did  her  aunt — that  one  must 
learn  to  give  up. 

Miss  Betsey  did  not  look  the  same.  The  gay  dress 
that  she  once  wore  was  discarded,  and  she  was  soberly 
clad  in  black.  She  really  was  not  unlike  other  people 
now,  but  her  speech  was  as  quaint  as  ever. 

She  brought  Willy's  present  with  her,  and  was  shocked 
to  find  that  Janet's  had  never  been  received. 

"  Well  now,  I  want  to  know !"  she  exlaimed,  rocking 
violently.  "  I  did  it  up  with  my  own  hands.  I  remember 
it  exactly,  for  it  was  a  few  days  after  the  funeral,  and  I 
was  that  flustered  I  could  scarcely  tie  the  cord  or  hold  the 
pen.  It  was  a  large  rag  doll  I  had  made  for  the  child, 
just  about  life  size,  and  a  face  as  natural  as  a  baby's. 
And  I  made  a  nice  little  satchel  to  hang  at  the  side,  and 
in  the  satchel  was  the  money.  Too  bad  she  didn't  get 
it !  I  remember  I  gave  it  to  old  Mr.  Peters  to  mail.  He 
was  going  down  Tottenham  way,  and  he  said  he'd  take 
it  to  the  post-office  there.  He'd  stopped  to  see  if  there 
was  anything  he  could  do  for  me  just  as  I  was  tying  it 
up,  so  I  let  him  take  it  along.  He's  half  blind,  and  just 
as  likely  as  not  he  went  to  the  meeting-house  instead  of 
the  post -office.  He  wouldn't  know  them  apart.  You 
may  depend  upon  it,  it  warn't  Government's  fault  you 
didn't  get  it.     Of  that  I'm  very  sure." 

And,  true  to  her  principles,  the  patriotic  little  lady 
rocked  again.  No  one  told  her  of  the  suspicion  which 
had  rested  upon  Neal.  It  would  have  distressed  her  too 
deeply,  and  nothing  would  be  gained  by  it. 

"And  now,  Jack,  I  must  see  those  little  orphans,"  she 


208 


said  to  her  great-neplaew,  when  he  came  home  that  after- 
noon.   "  Poor  little  things,  are  they  at  all  happy  ?" 

Jack  led  her  in  triumph  to  the  poultry-yard. 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know !"  she  exclaimed,  throwing  up 
her  mitted  hands  when  she  saw  six  or  seven  hundred  very 
contented-looking  fowls  of  all  sizes,  kinds,  and  ages,  each 
brood  in  its  allotted  habitation,  pecking,  running,  crowing, 
and  clucking,  and  enjoying  life  generally. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say,  Jackie,  that  not  one  of  these 
hens  ever  had  any  mother  but  that  heartless  box  in  the 
cellar?  Well,  I  want  to  know!  They  do  look  real  con- 
tented.    Do  tell !" 

Her  nephew  proudly  assured  her  that  they  appeared  to 
be  exceedingly  happy,  and  that  he  also  was  happy  ;  for 
they  paid  well,  and  he  would  soon  be  able  to  return  the 
money  that  he  had  borrowed  of  her. 

And  indeed  in  a  few  weeks  Jack  travelled  out  to  Way- 
borough,  and  with  his  own  hands  gave  back  to  his  aunt 
the  seventy-five  dollars  which  she  had  advanced  to  him, 
and  which  he  had  earned  with  his  own  hard  work. 

The  best  part  of  it  all  was  when  his  father  spoke  to 
him  with  unqualified  praise. 

"  I  am  really  proud  of  my  son,  Jack,"  he  said.  "  You 
have  done  well.  I  have  watched  you  carefully,  and  I  saw 
the  plucky  way  in  which  you  met  your  discouragements. 
It  makes  me  feel  that  I  have  a  son  worth  having.  Keep 
at  it,  my  boy.  If  you  put  the  same  pluck  and  persever- 
ance into  everything  you  undertake  you  will  make  a  name 
some  day." 

And  when  Jack  remembered  how  his  father  had  frowned 
down  the  idea  of  the  incubator  he  felt  more  pleased  than 
ever. 


209 


One  day  a  letter  came  to  Cynthia  from  Neal.  It  was 
the  first  they  had  received.  Mr.  Carpenter  had  written  to 
Mrs.  Franklin,  telling  her  that  Neal  was  with  him,  and  that 
he  had  taken  him  into  his  office ;  and  Hester  wrote  to  her 
brother  at  once,  but  he  answered  neither  that  letter  nor 
the  many  that  followed.  He  was  still  obdurate.  It  was 
an  exciting  moment,  therefore,  when  Cynthia  recognized 
the  bold,  boyish  handwriting  on  the  envelope. 

"Dear  Cynth  [he  wrote], — I  promised  to  write  to 
you,  so  here  goes.  I  am  living  with  cousin  William 
Carpenter,  and  probably  shall  for  the  rest  of  my  days. 
He  is  in  the  lumber  business,  and  lumber's  awfully  poky. 
However,  Pm  earning  my  living.  Did  you  ever  see  a 
Quaker  ?  They  are  a  queer  lot.  It  would  not  do  for  you 
to  be  one,  for  they  never  get  excited.  If  the  house  got 
on  fire  cousin  William  and  cousin  Rachel  would  walk 
calmly  about  and  thee  and  thou  each  other  as  quietly  as 
ever.  They  don't  say  'thou'  though.  Cousin  William 
says  it  has  become  obsolete. 

"  I  do  nothing  but  measure  boards  and  write  down  fig- 
ures. Boards  are  tiresome  things.  I  go  to  Quaker  meet- 
ing sometimes,  though  I  should  say  Friends'  meeting. 
They  call  themselves  Friends.  All  the  men  sit  on  one 
side  and  all  the  women  on  the  other,  and  the  men  keep 
their  hats  on  all  through.  Sometimes  there  isn't  any  ser- 
mon and  sometimes  there  are  five  or  six,  just  as  it  happens. 
The  women  preach  too,  if  they  feel  like  it.  One  day  it 
was  terribly  still,  and  I  was  just  beginning  to  think  I 
should  blow  up  and  bust  if  somebody  didn't  say  some- 
thing— had  serious  thoughts  of  giving  a  sermon  myself — 
when  I  heard  a  familiar  voice,  and  I  looked  over,  and  there 

14 


210 


was  cousin  Rachel  preaching  away  for  dear  life.  And  a 
mighty  good  sermon  it  was,  too — better  than  any  of  the 
men's. 

"  Cousin  William  takes  me  to  see  the  sights  on  Satur- 
day (or,  rather.  Seventh  day,  as  he  would  say)  afternoon, 
and  I  have  been  about  myself  a  good  deal.  I  would  like 
to  get  to  know  the  people,  but  have  no  chance.  I  wish 
you  would  write  to  a  fellow,  Cynth.  I  would  like  to  see 
you  pretty  awfully  much.  How  you  did  give  it  to  me 
that  day  on  the  river!  You  were  a  brick,  though,  to  come. 
I  have  not  forgotten  what  you  said.  I  am  going  to  show 
you  I  am  no  coward,  though  you  said  I  was.  I'll  stick  at 
the  lumber  trade  until  I  die  in  the  harness,  and  here's  my 
hand  and  seal !  Yours, 

"Neal  Gordon. 

"  P.S. — Give  my  love  to  Hessie.  I  hope  Edith  is  com- 
ing round  all  right." 

It  was  better  than  nothing,  though  Mrs.  Franklin  wished 
that  the  letter  had  been  to  her.  Still,  it  was  far,  far  bet- 
ter than  if  it  had  not  been  written  at  all.  And  then  he 
had  sent  his  love  to  her.  It  was  in  a  postscript  and 
was  probably  an  after-thought,  but  she  was  glad  he  did 
it.  He  seemed  well  and  moderately  happy,  and  for  that 
his  sister  was  very  grateful.  Fortunately,  Hester  could 
not  read  between  the  lines  and  learn  that  the  boy  was  eat- 
ing his  heart  out  with  homesickness  and  a  longing  to  see 
his  only  sister. 

Neal  found  this  quiet  life,  so  far  from  his  family  and 
friends,  very  different  from  that  to  which  he  had  been  ac- 
customed, and  sometimes  it  seemed  very  dreary  and  hard 


311 


to  bear.  Then  again,  he  was  quite  unused  to  steady  occu- 
pation, and  his  cousin  demanded  unflagging  attention  to 
business.  It  was  good  for  the  boy,  just  what  he  needed  j 
but  that  made  it  none  the  less  irksome. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Edith  recovered  slowly ;  but  the  shock  had  told  upon 
her,  and  it  was  thought  she  needed  a  change  of  air. 

"  Take  her  to  a  city,"  suggested  the  doctor ;  "  she  re- 
quires diversion." 

And  very  hurriedly  and  unexpectedly  they  decided  to 
go  to  Washington  for  a  week  or  two,  stopping  in  Phila- 
delphia on  their  way  back  for  a  glimpse  of  Neal. 

The  party  consisted  of  Mrs.  Franklin,  Edith,  and  Cyn- 
thia, with  the  addition  at  the  last  moment  of  Aunt  Betsey. 
Each  of  the  three  Franklins  felt  a  slight  pang  of  disap- 
pointment when  they  heard  that  Miss  Trinkett  intended 
to  join  them ;  it  would  have  been  just  a  little  nicer  to  go 
alone.  But  the  old  lady  never  suspected  this,  and  she  met 
them  in  Boston  on  the  morning  of  the  1st  of  June,  full  of 
excitement  and  pleasure  at  the  thought  of  seeing  "the 
inner  workings  of  this  wonderful  government  of  ours." 

Hester's  one  thought  was  that  she  should  soon  see  her 
brother  again.  During  the  last  few  weeks  a  letter  had  come 
from  the  head-master  at  St.  Asaph's,  deeply  regretting  the 
unjust  judgment  that  had  been  passed  upon  Neal  in  sus- 
pending him  from  school.  It  had  since  been  proved  that 
be  was  innocent,  and  the  faculty  would  be  only  too  glad  to 
welcome  him  back.  Mrs.  Franklin  felt  that  she  could  not 
do  too  much  to  atone  to  Neal  for  having  suspected  him, 
and  she  longed  to  tell  him  so. 


213 


"  And  if  I  once  see  liim  I  can  persuade  him  to  come 
back.     I  know  I  can !"  she  said,  joyfully,  to  Cynthia. 

The  visit  was  an  unqualified  success.  The  Franklin 
party  did  a  vast  amount  of  sight-seeing,  Miss  Trinkett 
being  the  most  indefatigable  of  all.  Indeed,  Cynthia  was 
the  only  one  who  was  able  physically  to  keep  up  with  her 
energetic  little  grandaunt,  and  even  she  was  sometimes 
forced  to  plead  fatigue. 

Miss  Betsey  left  nothing  undone.  She  journeyed  to 
the  top  of  the  Monument,  she  made  a  solemn  pilgrimage 
to  Alexandria.  She  was  never  too  tired  to  go  to  the  Cap- 
itol, and  her  little  black-robed  figure  and  large  black  bon- 
net soon  became  familiar  objects  in  the  visitors'  gallery, 
while  she  listened  carefully  to  all  the  speeches,  thrilling 
or  dull  as  they  chanced  to  be.  When  the  latter  was  the 
case,  as  frequently  happened.  Miss  Trinkett  waxed  warm 
with  indignation  at  the  lack  of  attention  paid  to  the  prosy 
old  member  by  his  inconsiderate  colleagues. 

"  Look  !"  she  would  whisper  to  Cynthia ;  "  they  are 
actually  reading  and  writing  and  talking  quite  loud  to 
each  other  while  that  poor  old  gentleman  is  speaking ; 
and  some  have  gone  out.     How  shocking  !" 

And  she  would  lean  forward  again  in  an  attitude  of 
renewed  attention,  and  listen  to  the  reasons  for  or  against 
some  very  unimportant  project. 

At  Mount  Vernon  Miss  Trinkett's  joy  and  patriotism 
knew  no  bounds.  She  bought  little  hatchets  by  the  score, 
and  herself  drew  up  the  bucket  from  the  general's  own 
well.  She  was  even  guilty  of  breaking  off  a  twig  in  Mrs. 
Washington's  garden,  notwithstanding  the  signs  which 
informed  her  that  she  was  doing  it  under  penalty  of  the 
law. 


214 


"I  just  couldn't  help  it,"  she  said  afterwards  to  her 
nieces,  in  apologetic  tones.  "  To  think  of  that  labyrinth 
and  that  box-border  being  Martha  Washington's  own,  and 
me  with  the  same  thing  in  ray  garden  at  home  !  It  made 
me  fairly  thrill  to  think  of  Martha  and  me  having  the 
same  tastes  in  common.  I  knew  she'd  have  let  me  take 
it  if  she'd  been  here,  for  I  always  heard  she  was  real 
kind-hearted,  if  she  ivas  dignified,  so  I  just  did  it." 

But  the  most  exciting  day  of  all  was  when  they  visited 
the  Dead-letter  Office.  Miss  Trinkett,  interested  as  she 
had  always  been  in  the  mail  service,  was  much  impressed. 
She  sat  up-stairs  for  hours,  and  gazed  over  the  railing  at 
the  rows  of  men  who  were  opening  and  examining  thou- 
sands of  missent  letters.  She  could  only  be  torn  away 
by  the  entreaties  of  Cynthia,  who  begged  her  to  come  see 
the  collection  of  curiosities  which  had  found  their  way  to 
this  vast  receptacle. 

At  the  first  glass-case  Miss  Betsey  stood  appalled. 

"  Cynthy  Franklin,"  she  exclaimed,  "  look  there  !" 

Cynthia  looked.  There  was  every  conceivable  thing 
in  the  place,  from  a  bee-hive  to  a  baby's  rattle. 

<'  Do  you  see  ?" 

"  What,  Aunt  Betsey  ?" 

"  There  !    Look,  my  own  rag  doll !" 

"  Aunt  Betsey,  it  can't  be  !" 

"  It  is,  Cynthy.  Don't  I  know  the  work  of  my  own 
hands,  I  should  like  to  ask  ?  Well,  well,  I  want  to  know  ! 
I  want— to — know  !  Find  me  a  chair,  Cynthy.  I  feel 
that  taken  aback  I  don't  know  but  what  I'm  going  to 
faint,  though  I  never  did  such  a  thing.  But  do  tell !  do 
tell !  Oh,  this  government  of  ours  !  It  is  an  age  to  live 
in,  Cvnthv." 


"'theue!     look,  my  own  rag  doll!'" 


215 


Cynthia  brouglit  her  the  chair,  and  the  old  lady  seated 
herself  in  front  of  the  case. 

"  I  do  declare,  if  there  ain't  the  very  eyes  I  sewed  in 
with  my  own  hands — black  beads  they  are,  Cynthy — and 
the  hair  I  embroidered  with  fine  black  yarn !  And  the 
petticoats,  Cynthy !  The  flannel  one's  feather-stitched. 
I  could  tell  you  what  that  doll  has  on  to  her  very  stock- 
ings. To  think  that  something  I  made  so  innocently, 
away  off  in  Way  borough,  for  our  little  Janet,  now  belongs 
to  the  United  States  Government !  Well,  well,  it's  a  great 
honor;  almost  too  good  to  be  true.  But  the  little  satchel, 
Cynthy  ?  The  satchel  that  hung  at  her  side  with  the  gold 
in  it,  where's  that  ?" 

That  indeed  was  missing. 

"  Well,  well,  we  won't  say  anything.  I'm  sure  Govern- 
ment deserves  it  for  all  the  trouble  it  takes,  opening  all 
those  letters  and  bundles." 

But  her  family  thought  differently,  and  Avheels  within 
wheels  were  set  in  motion  by  whicli  the  fifty  dollars  in 
gold  were  recovered — the  famous  fifty  dollars,  the  loss  of 
which  had  so  affected  the  fortunes  of  Neal  Gordon. 

It  seemed  that  in  her  agitation  after  the  death  of  Silas 
Green,  Miss  Betsey,  though  she  stamped  it  generously, 
had  put  no  address  at  all  on  the  package,  and  having  sent 
it  off  by  the  half  blind  Mr.  Peters,  the  deficiency  had  not 
been  discovered. 

He  had  taken  it  to  Tottenham  post-oflnce,  where  both 
he  and  Miss  Trinkett  were  unknown,  and  hurried  away, 
leaving  the  valuable  package  to  the  mercies  of  Govern- 
ment. 

"  And  to  think  that  Government  takes  care  of  things 
and  gives  them  back  to  you  when  you  are  as  careless  as 


216 


all  that !"  said  Miss  Betsey.  The  doll  she  would  not  re- 
ceive. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  ;  "  let  it  stay  where  it  is.  I'll  make 
another  for  Janet,  some  day.  It's  an  honor  I  never  ex- 
pected, to  have  one  of  my  rag  dolls  set  up  in  a  glass  case 
in  a  public  building  in  the  city  of  Washington  for  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  the  American  people  to  gaze  at ! 
Indeed,  I  want  to  know  !" 

The  two  weeks  in  Washington  finally  came  to  an  end, 
and  the  Franklins  bade  farewell  to  the  beautiful  city  with 
its  parks  and  circles,  its  magnificent  avenues,  its  public 
buildings,  and  towering  Monument. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Miss  Betsey,  as  she  took  her  last 
look,  "  I  haven't  lived  all  these  years  for  nothing !  I've 
been  to  the  capital  of  my  country  and  I've  visited  the 
tomb  of  Washington.  And,  Cynthy,  now  it's  all  over  and 
we're  safely  out  of  the  way,  I'm  real  glad  I  took  that  twig 
from  the  garden.  I  had  a  kind  of  an  uneasy  feeling  about 
it  all  the  time  I  was  in  town,  but  now  I  feel  better." 

When  they  arrived  at  Philadelphia  Mr.  Carpenter  was 
waiting  for  them  at  the  station.  Neal,  he  explained,  was 
at  the  lumber-yard ;  he  could  not  get  off  at  that  hour. 
They  had  intended  going  to  a  hotel,  but  William  Carpen- 
ter, with  Quaker  hospitality,  insisted  that  they  should  stay 
under  his  roof  while  they  were  in  the  city. 

"  Rachel  expects  thee,"  he  said  to  his  cousin  when  she 
remonstrated  ;  "  she  has  made  the  necessary  preparations." 

"  But  there  are  so  many  of  us,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin. 

"There  is  room  for  all,  and  more,"  he  replied,  calmly. 

Miss  Trinkett  was  much  pleased  with  all  she  saw,  though 
somewhat  surprised  when  she  heard  herself  called  by  her 
given  name  on  so  short  an  acquaintance. 


217 


"  However,  it  gives  you  an  at-home  feeling  right  away," 
she  confided  to  her  nieces.  "  It  seems  as  if  I  were  back 
in  Wayborough  with  the  people  that  have  known  me  ever 
since  I  was  born,  I  wouldn't  like  to  say  how  many  years 
ago,  though  not  so  very  many,  either." 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  when  Neal  came  in. 
Hester  heard  his  familiar  step  coming  down  the  long, 
narrow  hall  to  her  room,  where  she  was  resting.  There 
was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  she  called  to  him  to  come  in. 
In  another  instant  his  arras  were  around  her. 

"  Neal,  Neal,"  she  cried,  "  is  it  really  you  at  last  ?  Oh, 
how  I  have  longed  to  see  you  !     Let  me  look  at  you." 

She  held  herself  away  from  him,  and  scrutinized  the 
face  which  was  far  above  hers. 

"You've  grown.  You  are  taller  than  ever.  I  only 
come  up  to  your  shoulder,  NeaL  What  a  big  man  you 
are  going  to  be  !  And  you  have  altered — your  face  looks 
different.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  Can't  say,"  he  laughed.  "  Don't  stare  a  fellow  out  of 
countenance,  Hessie ;  it's  embarrassing.  Did  you  have  a 
good  time  in  Washington  ?" 

It  was  evident  that  he  did  not  wish  to  refer  to  past  events, 
but  Hester  insisted  upon  speaking.  She  felt  that  some- 
thing must  be  said  sooner  or  later,  and  there  was  no  time 
like  the  present.     It  would  be  well  to  get  it  over. 

"  Neal,"  she  said,  tenderly,  taking  his  hand  as  they  sat 
together  on  the  sofa,  "  I  never  really  thought  you  took  the 
money.  I  only  did  for  an  instant  after  you  ran  away.  Of 
course  that  seemed  strange.  But,  Neal,  you  will  forgive 
us  for  thinking  so  at  all.  You  will  come  back,  won't  you, 
dear  ?  John  wants  you  to  as  well  as  I,  and  you  will  go  to 
college." 


218 


Neal  rose  and  walked  to  the  window.  He  stood  there 
for  a  moment,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Then  he 
turned,  and,  coming  back,  stood  in  front  of  her. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  Hessie,  we've  both  got  some- 
thing to  forgive.  I  was  beastly  extravagant  at  St.  Asaph's, 
and  not  at  all  fair  and  square  when  I  asked  you  for  the 
money  that  time.  Then,  being  suspended  was  all  against 
me,  and  of  course  John  had  a  right  to  get  mad.  It's  aw- 
fully hard  to  swallow  the  fact  that  he  wouldn't  believe 
me,  and  he  thought  I  would  steal ;  however,  he  had  some 
excuse  for  it.  My  old  pride  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all. 
You  see  I've  had  time  to  think  it  over  since  I've  been 
here  ;  two  months  is  a  good  long  time.  I've  been  alone 
a  lot,  and  when  you're  not  measuring  boards  at  a  lumber- 
yard you  have  plenty  of  time  for  thinking  over  )^our  sins. 
And  I  suppose  I  was  pretty  well  in  the  wrong,  too.  I 
ought  not  to  have  run  away ;  I  know  that." 

Now  that  Neal  had  reached  this  conclusion  he  was 
courageous  enough  to  acknowledge  it. 

"And  you  will  come  home  now,  and  go  to  college." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  will.  Cousin  William  seems  to 
think  I  do  pretty  well  in  the  business,  and  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he'd  feel  rather  badly  to  have  me  go.  He  was 
very  good  to  take  me  in.  Then  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd 
stick  at  the  old  thing  and  show  Cyn — show  some  people 
I'm  no  coward.  Then  I'm  not  very  much  gone  on  books, 
Hessie,  and  if  I  went  to  college  I'd  want  to  give  a  good 
deal  of  time  to  sports  and  all  that,  and  I'd  need  a  lot  of 
money.  Somehow  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  see  other 
fellows  spending  a  pile  without  doing  likewise.  I  haven't 
got  it,  and  I  am  not  going  to  be  dependent  on  you,  Hes- 
sie dear,  much  as  I  know  you  would  like  to  give  me  every 


219 


cent  you  own.  But,  on  the  whole,  I  think  I  like  better  to 
make  my  own  living.     I  rather  like  the  feeling  of  it." 

Hester  felt  that  Neal  was  showing  that  he  was  made  of 
good  stuff.  She  was  not  a  little  proud  of  his  independent 
spirit.  She  was  greatly  disappointed  that  he  was  not  go- 
ing through  college  ;  but,  after  all,  she  reflected,  there  was 
great  wisdom  in  what  he  said.  She  determined  to  say  no 
more  until  she  had  consulted  with  her  husband,  but  she 
knew  that  he  would  agree  with  Neah 

"  And  now  where  are  the  girls  ?"  demanded  Neal,  with 
a  view  to  changing  the  subject.    "  I  want  to  see  them." 

His  sister  called  them  in  from  the  next  room,  and  they 
had  a  merry  meeting. 

"How  funny  it  is,"  thought  Cynthia.  "  The  last  time  I 
saw  Neal  we  were  like  two  drenched  water-rats  on  the 
river  at  home.  Whoever  thought  we  should  meet  away 
off  here  in  a  strange  house  and  a  strange  city,  where  all  is 
so  different?  I  believe  things  are  really  going  to  come 
right  after  all,  and  that  day  I  was  perfectly  certain  they 
never  would.  Here  is  Edith  well  and  strong  when  I 
thought  she  was  surely  going  to  die,  and  mamma  has 
seen  Neal  and  seems  as  happy  as  a  lark,  and  Neal  himself 
looks  fine.  Somehow  he  seems  more  like  a  man.  I'm 
proud  of  him." 

All  of  which  train  of  thought  took  place  while  Cynthia 
was  indulging  in  an  unwonted  fit  of  silence. 

Neal  soon  suggested  that  they  should  take  a  walk,  and 
the  girls  acceding  to  it,  the  three  set  forth,  Neal  feeling 
extremely  proud  of  the  two  pretty  maidens  with  whom  he 
was  walking. 

"  Philadelphia  has  an  awfully  forlorn  look  in  summer," 
he  said,  with  the  air  of  having  been  born  and  brought  up 


220 


a  Philadelphian.  "  You  see,  everybody  goes  out  of  town, 
and  the  houses  are  all  boarded  up.  You're  here  at  just 
the  wrong  time." 

"  We  are  certainly  here  at  a  very  hot  time,"  remarked 
Edith,  as  she  raised  her  parasol. 

"  They  call  it  very  cool  for  this  time  of  year,"  said 
Neal.  "  You  forget  you  are  farther  south  than  old  Massa- 
chusetts. It  is  a  dandy  place,  I  think,  though  I  wouldn't 
mind  knowing  a  few  people  that  are  not  Friends." 

"  How  can  you  know  people  unless  they  are  friends?" 
asked  Cynthia,  gayly. 

"  Cynth,  what  a  pun  1"  said  Neal,  with  an  attempt  at  a 
frown.  "  I  say,  though,  it's  awfully  jolly  to  have  you  two 
girls  here,  even  if  Cynthia  does  keep  at  her  old  tricks 
and  make  very  poor  puns.  How  long  are  you  going  to 
stay  ?" 

"  As  long  as  we're  bidden,  I  suppose,"  returned  Cynthia, 
with  one  of  her  well-known  little  skips,  as  they  set  foot 
on  Walnut  Street  Bridge. 

It  was  six  o'clock,  but  being  June  the  sun  was  still 
high  above  the  horizon.  A  gentle  breeze  came  off  the 
river,  and  the  afternoon  light  threw  a  soft  radiance  over 
the  masts  of  the  vessels  which  lay  at  anchor  at  the 
wharves,  and  the  spires  and  chimneys  of  the  town. 

They  wandered  through  the  pretty  streets  of  West 
Philadelphia ;  Neal,  happy  in  having  companions  of  his 
own  age  again,  laughing  and  talking  in  his  old  way,  care- 
free and  fun-loving  once  more. 

To  Cynthia  the  past  year  seemed  a  hideous  dream,  now 
to  be  blotted  out  forever. 

She  and  Neal  had  one  conversation  alone  together.  It 
was  the  night  before  the  visitors  were  to  leave  Phila- 


231 


delphia,  and  the  two  were  in  the  old  garden  that  was  at 
the  back  of  Mr.  Carpenter's  house.  It  was  not  like  Aunt 
Betsey's  garden,  nor  the  more  modern  one  at  Oakleio-h, 
but  the  roses  and  the  lilac  blossoms  suggested  a  bit  of 
country  here  among  city  bricks  and  mortar. 

Neal  was  very  quiet,  and  Cynthia  raUied  him  for  being 
so,  as  she  herself  laughed  heartily  at  one  of  her  own 
jokes. 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  am  rather  glum,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  think 
you  are  horribly  heartless,  Cynthia,  laughing  that  way  when 
you're  going  off  to-morrow,  and  nobody  knows  when  I 
shall  see  you  again." 

Cynthia  was  sobered  in  a  moment. 
"  Neal,  I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  she  said.  <'  Mam- 
ma told  me  that  you  have  decided  to  stay  here  and  work 
instead  of  going  to  college,  and  I  admire  you  for  doing 
it.  Of  course,  it's  a  great  pity  for  a  boy  not  to  go  to 
college,  but  then  yours  is  a  peculiar  case,  and  I'm  proud 
of  you,  Neal.  Yes,  I  am  !  You're  plucky  to  stick  it  out." 
"  Wait  until  I  do  stick  it  out,"  said  Neal,  coloring  hotly 
at  the  unexpected  praise.  ''  But  it's  rather  nice  to  hear 
you  tell  me  I'm  something  besides  a  coward." 

"  Hush  !  Don't  remember  what  I  said  that  day.  Just 
forget  it  all." 

"  Indeed,  I  won't !  It  is  written  down  in  my  brain, 
every  word  of  it,  in  indelible  ink.  There  was  something 
else  you  said,  Cynth.  You  said  you  had  faith  in  me.  I 
mean  to  show  you  that  you  didn't  make  a  mistake.  It 
will  be  harder  work  than  ever  now,  though.  Having 
seen  you  all  makes  the  idea  of  toiling  and  moiling  here 
pretty  poky.  However,  my  mind  is  made  up.  I  will 
stick  it  out !" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

It  was  four  years  later,  and  it  was  again  the  day  before 
Christmas. 

Cynthia  sat  in  her  own  room  by  the  bed,  which  was 
covered  with  presents  in  various  stages  of  completion  ; 
some  tied  up  and  marked,  ready  to  be  sent,  others  only 
half  finished,  and  one  or  two  but  just  begun.  Bob,  as 
usual,  lay  at  her  feet. 

"  There !"  cried  she,  as  with  a  loud  snap  her  needle 
broke  for  the  third  time  ;  "  there  it  goes  again.  I  believe 
I'll  give  up  this  wretched  frame  and  all  the  other  things 
that  are  not  finished,  and  go  to  Boston  this  morning.  I'll 
just  buy  everything  I  see,  regardless  of  price." 

"  You  would  never  get  near  the  counters,  the  shops  are 
so  packed,"  observed  Edith,  who  was  hovering  over  a 
table  full  of  lovely  articles  on  the  other  side  of  the  large 
room.  "  Just  send  what  you  have,  Cynthia,  and  let  the 
rest  go.  You  can't  possibly  finish  them  in  time.  You 
give  so  many  Christmas  presents." 

"  Oh,  it's  all  very  well  for  you,  with  all  those  wedding- 
presents  and  the  Christmas  things  you'll  have  besides,  to 
think  other  people  won't  want  them  !  You  don't  take 
half  as  much  interest  in  Christmas  as  usual  this  year, 
Edith,  just  because  you  are  going  to  be  married  so  soon. 
Now  I  should  never  change  about  Christmas  if  I  were  to 
be  married  forty  times — which  I  hope  I  sha'n't  be.  In 
fact,  I've  about  made  up  my  mind  never  to  marry  at  all." 


"  Nonsense  !  I  think  I  used  to  say  that  myself  when 
I  was  as  young  as  you  are." 

"  And  you're  just  two  years  older,  so  according  to  that 
you  were  saying  so  this  time  two  years  ago,  which  was 
not  by  any  means  the  case,  for  you  were  already  engaged 
to  Dennis  then  !  In  fact,  I  don't  believe  you  ever  said  it. 
Oh,  another  needle  !  I'm  too  excited  to  work,  anyhow. 
What  with  weddings  and  Christmas  and  the  boys  coming 
home,  I  am  utterly  incapable  of  further  exertion." 

She  tossed  the  unfinished  photograph-frame  across  the 
bed  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  Then  she  began  to 
gather  up  her  work  materials.  Finally  she  moved  rest- 
lessly to  the  window. 

^<  It  is  beginning  to  snow.  I  hope  the  boys  won't  be 
blocked  up  on  the  way.     Wouldn't  it  be  dreadful !" 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  Neal.  Of  course.  Jack  can  get 
out  from  Cambridge.  Ah,  here  comes  Dennis  !"  and  Edith 
hastily  left  the  room. 

"  Dennis,  Dennis— always  Dennis  !"  said  Cynthia  to  her- 
self. *'  I  wonder  if  I  could  ever  become  so  silly.  Cer- 
tainly I  never  could  about  Dennis  Morgan,  though  he  is  a 
dear  old  fellow,  and  I'm  very  glad  I'm  going  to  have  him 
for  a  brother-in-law." 

Cynthia  stood  for  some  time  at  the  window,  lookino- 
out  at  the  swiftly  falling  flakes  which  were  already  whiten- 
ing the  ground.  Bob  stood  beside  her,  his  fore-paws  rest- 
ing on  the  window-sill.  He  belonged  to  Cynthia  now ; 
but  she  patted  his  head  and  whispered  in  his  ear  that  his 
master  was  coming,  which  made  the  black  tail  wag  joy- 
fully. 

Four  years  had,  of  course,  made  considerable  change  in 
Cynthia ;  and  yet  her  face  did  not  look  very  much  older. 


234 


Iler  fearless  blue  eyes  were  just  as  merry  or  as  thought- 
ful by  turns  as  they  had  always  been — at  this  moment 
very  thoughtful ;  and  the  pretty  head,  with  the  hair  gath- 
ered in  a  soft  knot  at  the  back,  drooped  somewhat  as  she 
looked  out  on  the  fast  gathering  snow. 

She  was  wondering  how  Neal  would  be  this  time.  Dur- 
ing his  last  visit  he  had  seemed  different.  She  wished 
that  people  would  not  change.  Why  was  one  obliged  to 
grow  up  ?  If  they  could  only  remain  boys  and  girls  for- 
ever, what  a  lovely  place  the  world  would  be !  She  had 
hated  to  have  Edith  become  engaged,  and  now  in  two 
days  she  was  going  to  be  married  and  leave  the  old  home 
forever.  To  be  sure,  she  was  to  live  in  Brenton,  in  a  dear 
little  house  of  her  own,  but  it  would  not  be  the  same  thing 
at  all. 

Of  one  thing  Cynthia  was  sure.  She  would  never  marry 
and  go  away  from  Oakleigh ;  she  would  stay  with  her 
father  and  mother  forever.  The  next  wedding  in  the  fam- 
ily would  be  either  Jack's  or  Janet's.  Jack  had  overcome 
his  shyness  and  become  quite  a  "  lady's  man,"  and  as  for 
Janet — but  just  then  the  young  woman  in  question  came 
into  the  room. 

She  was  eleven  years  old  now,  tall  for  her  age,  and  with 
her  hair  in  a  "  pig-tail,"  but  the  roguish  look  in  her  eyes 
showed  that,  like  the  Janet  of  former  times,  she  was  ever 
ready  for  mischief. 

She  carried  a  pile  of  boxes  in  her  arms,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  Willy,  who  staggered  under  a  similar  load,  and 
by  Mrs.  Franklin,  also  with  her  arms  full. 

"  More  wedding-presents,"  Janet  announced.  "  Edith 
and  Dennis  have  been  looking  at  them,  and  they  sent  them 
up  for  you  to  see  and  fix." 


225 


As  slie  uttered  the  last  words  one  of  tlie  boxes  slipped, 
and  away  went  a  quantity  of  articles  over  the  floor — spoons, 
forks,  gravy-ladles,  and  salt-cellars  in  wild  confusion,  cards 
scattered,  and  no  means  of  telling  who  sent  what,  nor  in 
which  box  anything  belonged. 

"Janet,"  groaned  Cynthia,  "if  that  isn't  just  like  you! 
You  ought  to  be  called  '  The  Great  American  Dropper,'  for 
everthing  goes  from  you." 

"  Never  mind,"  returned  Janet,  cheerfully.  "  Willy,  you 
pick  them  up  while  I  see  who's  coming.  I  hear  wheels. 
It's  a  station  carriage." 

"  Is  it?"  cried  Cynthia.     "  Can  it  be  already  ?" 

"  It's  Aunt  Betsey,"  was  Janet's  next  piece  of  informa- 
tion. 

"  Oh !"  came  from  Cynthia,  in  disappointed  tones. 

"  Why,  who  did  you  think  it  was  ?"  asked  her  young- 
sister,  turning  and  surveying  her  calmly  and  critically. 
"  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  Aunt  Betsey  ?  And  why  is  your 
face  so  very  red  ?     Are  you  expecting  any  one  else  ?" 

"  No,  only  the  boys,"  said  Cynthia,  busying  herself 
with  the  scattered  silverware. 

"  The  boys  !  I  don't  see  why  your  face  should  look  so 
queer  for  them." 

Mrs.  Franklin  glanced  at  Cynthia  quickly. 

"  Come,"  said  she,  much  to  her  daughter's  relief,  "  we 
must  go  welcome  Aunt  Betsey." 

The  little  old  lady  was  as  agile  as  ever.  She  had 
come  for  Christmas  and  for  the  wedding,  which  was  to 
take  place  on  the  twenty -sixth. 

"I  am  glad  you  didn't  put  it  oft',''  she  said  to  Edith 
when  she  had  kissed  her  and  kissed  Dennis,  and  patted 
them  both  on  the  shoulder.    "  Never  put  oft  till  to-morrow 

15 


what  can  be  done  to-day,  as  I  learned  to  my  cost  late  in 
life — though  not  so  very  late,  either.  And  now  I  want 
to  see  the  wedding-presents." 

And  she  trotted  up-stairs  in  front  of  them  just  as  nim- 
bly as  she  did  years  ago,  when  she  went  up  to  show  her 
nieces  her  new  false  front. 

Jack  arrived  in  the  afternoon.  He  was  a  sophomore  at 
Harvard  now — very  elegant  in  appearance,  very  superior  as 
to  knowledge  of  the  world,  but  underneath  the  same  old 
Jack,  good  -  natured,  plodding,  persevering.  He  still  ran 
the  poultry  farm,  though  he  paid  a  man  to  look  after  it 
while  he  was  away. 

The  day  wore  on,  night  came  down  upon  them,  and  still 
Neal  did  not  appear.  He  was  to  have  left  Philadelphia 
that  morning,  where  he  had  been  living  during  the  past 
four  years.  He  had  grown  more  accustomed  to  the  con- 
finement of  business,  he  had  made  a  number  of  friends 
outside  of  the  Quaker  element,  and  he  expected  Philadel- 
phia to  be  his  permanent  home. 

His  cousin  was  apparently  satisfied  with  his  success,  for 
Neal  had  risen  steadily  since  the  beginning,  and  would  one 
day  be  a  partner.  He  had  come  home  to  Oakleigh  every 
summer  for  two  weeks'  vacation,  but  he  had  not  spent 
the  Christmas  holidays  there  since  the  year  that  his  sister 
was  married. 

This  Christmas  Eve  Cynthia,  in  her  prettiest  gown 
donned  for  the  occasion,  grew  visibly  more  and  more  im- 
patient, in  which  feeling  her  step  -  mother  shared.  Mr. 
Franklin  laughed  at  them  as  he  sat  by  the  lamp  reading 
the  evening  paper  as  usual. 

"  Watching  w^on't  bring  him,"  he  said,  when  they 
opened  the  front  door  a  crack  for  the  twentieth  time  and 


227 


then  shut  it  hastily  because  of  the  snow  that  blew  in  ; 
"  and  in  the  meantime  you're  freezing  me  !" 

"  Papa,  how  can  you  be  so  prosaic  as  to  read  a  stupid 
old  newspaper  Christmas  Eve?"  cried  Cynthia,  as  she 
caught  the  paper  out  of  his  hand,  tossed  it  aside,  and 
seated  herself  on  his  knee. 

"Seems  to  me  my  little  daughter  looks  very  nice  to- 
night," he  said,  looking  at  her  affectionately.  "  She  has 
on  a  very  fine  frock  and  some  very  superior  color  in  her 
cheeks." 

"Well,  it  is  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  fire  is  hot,"  ex- 
plained Cynthia. 

"  Ho  !"  laughed  Janet,  "  that  isn't  it !  You  began  to 
get  blushy  when  you  thought  the  boys  were  coming  this 
morning.     You  thought — " 

"  Janet,"  interposed  Mrs.  Franklin,  "run  up-stairs  quick- 
ly and  get  the  little  white  package  on  my  dressing-table, 
dear.  I  forgot  to  put  it  in  the  basket.  You  can  slip  it 
in." 

For  the  old  Oakleigh  custom  still  obtained,  and  the 
presents  were  deposited  in  the  basket  in  the  hall. 

Janet,  her  explanations  nipped  in  the  bud,  departed 
obediently,  her  love  of  teasing  overcome  by  her  desire  to 
see,  feel,  and  even  shake  the  "  little  white  package,"  which 
had  an  attractive  sound. 

And  at  last  Neal  arrived.  The  storm  had  begun  at  the 
south,  and  there  had  been  much  detention  ;  but  he  had 
finally  reached  his  journey's  end,  and  here  he  was,  cold 
and  hungry,  and  very  glad  to  reach  the  friendly  shelter 
of  Oakleigh. 

From  the  moment  he  came  in  Cynthia  found  a  great 
deal  to  do  in  other  parts  of  the  house  — things  which 


238 


seemed  to  require  lier  immediate  and  closest  attention. 
She  left  lier  mother  and  sister  to  attend  to  the  ^vants  of 
the  traveller,  and  beyond  the  first  shy  greeting  she  had 
verv  little  to  say  to  him.  When  there  was  nothing  left  to 
be  done  she  devoted  herself  to  Aunt  Betsey.  But  as 
soon  as  Neal  had  appeased  his  appetite  the  excitement  of 
opening  the  presents  began,  and  the  assumption  of  indif- 
ference to  his  coming  was  no  longer  necessary. 

On  Christmas  afternoon  Neal  asked  Cynthia  to  go  out 
with  him.  The  day  was  clear,  the  sleighing  fine,  and  he 
anticipated  having  an  opportunity  for  a  long  talk  with 
her,  uninterrupted  by  the  claims  of  relatives.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  there  were  more  people  than  ever  who  re- 
ceived a  share  of  Cynthia's  attention.  He  would  like  to 
have  her  all  to  himself  just  once. 

Very  much  to  his  chagrin,  however,  Cynthia,  who  ac- 
cepted his  invitation  with  apparent  cordiality,  insisted 
that  they  should  go  in  the  double  sleigh,  and  that  Aunt 
Betsey  and  some  one  else  should  go  too. 

"  It  would  be  very  selfish  and  quite  unnecessary  for  us 
to  go  in  the  cutter  when  Aunt  Betsey  is  so  fond  of  a 
sleigh-ride,"  she  said,  severely. 

Neal  grumbled  under  his  breath,  but  could  say  nothing 
aloud,  as  Miss  Trinkett  was  in  the  room.  To  be  sure,  when 
they  drove  off,  Cynthia  sat  in  front  with  him,  while  his 
sister  entertained  her  aunt  on  the  back  seat ;  but  it  was 
not  by  any  means  the  same  thing  as  going  with  Cynthia 
alone  would  have  been. 

That  young  woman,  with  apparent  unconsciousness  of 
his  dissatisfaction,  chatted  gayly  about  the  wedding,  the 
various  bits  of  Brenton  gossip,  and  everything  that  she 
could  think  of  to  keep  the  ball  of  conversation  rolling. 


229 


Somehow  it  had  never  before  been  so  difficult  to  talk  to 
Neal.  She  wished  that  he  would  exert  himself  a  little 
more. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  idea  of  being  usher,"  she  asked — 
"  you  and  Jack  and  four  others,  you  know  ?  Tom  Morgan 
is  to  be  best  man,  Gertrude  and  Kitty  Morgan  are  to  be 
bridesmaids,  and  I  maid  of  honor.  But,  Neal,  did  you  hear 
the  story  about  Tony  Br  on  son  ?" 

<'No;  what?" 

"  Oh,  he  did  some  terrible  thing  not  very  long  ago.  He 
forged  his  uncle's  name,  I  believe.  It  got  into  the  papers 
at  first,  and  then  it  was  all  hushed  up,  and  his  father  paid 
the  money.     But  wasn't  it  dreadful  ?" 

"  I  should  say  so  !  But  it  is  just  what  one  might  have 
expected  Bronson  to  do,  Cynth." 

And  then  Neal  relapsed  into  silence  again,  and  Cynthia 
determined  that  she  would  make  no  further  effort  at  con- 
versation. If  Neal  would  not  talk  he  need  not,  but  neither 
would  she.  And  after  this,  with  the  exception  of  Miss 
Betsey's  voice  from  behind,  nothing  was  heard  but  the  jin- 
gle of  the  sleigh-bells  until  the  drive  was  over  and  they 
were  at  home  again. 

The  wedding  the  next  day  passed  off  well.  The  bride 
looked  lovely,  as  all  brides  should,  and  Cynthia  was  as 
pretty  as,  if  not  more  so,  than  her  sister.  After  the  cere- 
mony at  the  church  there  was  a  reception  at  the  house, 
which,  notwithstanding  the  winter  aspect  without,  looked 
warm  and  gay  in  its  dress  of  Christmas-greens  and  wed- 
ding-flowers. 

Edith  was  up-stairs  in  her  old  room,  and  her  mother  and 
Cynthia  were  putting  the  last  touches  to  her  toilet  when 
she  had  changed  her  dress  to  go  away. 


230 


"  Mamma,  I  want  to  say  something  to  you,"  she  said, 
putting  her  arms  around  Mrs.  Franklin's  neck.  "  You 
know  how  I  love  you  now,  and  you  know  only  too  well 
how  hateful  I  was  to  you  when  you  first  came  to  us.  I  look 
back  on  it  now  with  horror,  especially  the  day  you  heard 
me  say  it  was  so  dreadful  to  have  the  Gordons  come.  I 
want  to  tell  you,  mamma,  that  next  to  Dennis  the  coming 
of  the  Gordons  was  the  very  best  thing  that  ever  happened 
to  me  in  my  whole  life  !" 

Mrs.  Franklin  could  not  speak ;  she  could  only  kiss  her 
and  hold  her  tenderly. 

Cynthia  said  nothing  aloud,  but  she  thought  that  the 
coming  of  the  Gordons  was  the  very  best  thing  that  had 
ever  happened  to  her,  without  any  exception  whatever. 
Dennis,  in  her  eyes,  was  of  minor  importance. 

The  bride  and  groom  went  off  amid  a  shower  of  old 
shoes,  and  then  the  guests  slowly  betook  themselves  to 
their  homes.  It  was  the  first  weddino-  at  Oakleioii  for 
many  years,  and  it  was  celebrated  in  a  manner  befitting 
such  an  important  occasion.  Some  of  the  intimate  friends 
stayed  during  the  evening,  and  when  they  left,  the  family, 
tired  and  worn  with  excitement,  separated  early. 

The  next  day  Neal  went  to  see  some  of  his  former 
friends.  He  was  absent  several  days,  for  he  had  been 
granted  extended  leave,  and  was  not  due  in  Philadelphia 
until  the  2d  of  January. 

It  seemed  very  lonely  and  strange  at  Oakleigh  after 
the  wedding  was  over.  It  was  the  first  break  in  the  fam- 
ily of  that  kind,  and  Cynthia  could  not  become  accus- 
tomed to  it.  She  thought  that  accounted  for  the  unus- 
ual fit  of  depression  which  seized  her  the  morning  Neal  went 
away,  and  which  she  could  not  shake  off,  try  as  she  would. 


Edith  and  Dennis  were  to  return  the  last  day  of  the 
year,  and  spend  a  short  time  at  the  old  homestead  before 
going  to  their  new  house.  Neal  also  was  to  come  back 
that  day,  and  Cynthia  found  herself  longing  for  New- 
year's  Eve.  She  did  want  to  see  Edith  so  much,  she  said 
to  herself  a  dozen  times  a  day. 

And  at  last  New-year's  Eve  came,  and  with  it  the  ab- 
sent members  of  the  household.  A  merry  party  sat  about 
the  supper-table  that  night.  Cynthia  was  the  gayest  of 
the  gay.  Her  contagious  laugh  rang  out  on  all  occasions, 
but,  indeed,  everybody  laughed  at  every  one  else's  joke, 
and  particularly  at  one's  own  joke,  apparently  without  re- 
gard to  the  amount  of  wit  contained  therein. 

But  as  the  evening  lengthened  Cynthia  grew  more  quiet. 
The  last  night  of  the  year  always  impressed  her  with  its 
solemnity,  young  though  she  was.  She  left  the  others 
where  they  were  sitting  about  the  fire  waiting  for  the 
clock  to  strike,  and  wandered  oS  to  the  dining-room, 
to  the  library,  up-stairs — anywhere.  She  could  not  sit 
still. 

She  was  just  coming  down  the  broad  old  staircase  when 
Neal  suddenly  appeared  at  the  foot.  He  had  been  wait- 
ing for  her.  He  was  to  go  back  to-morrow,  and  he  had 
determined  to  speak  to  her  before  he  left. 

She  paused  a  moment  in  surprise,  and  the  light  from 
the  Venetian  lantern  which  hung  in  the  hall  shone  down 
on  her  soft  curly  hair  and  young  face  as  she  stood  with 
her  hand  resting  on  the  bannister.  Neal  thought  he  had 
never  seen  so  lovely  a  picture. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Cynth,"  he  said,  leaning 
against  the  carved  post  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  effect- 
ually barring  the  way.     There  was  nothing  for  her  to  do 


233 


but  to  listen.  "  I  have  tried  for  ages,  ever  since  I  came, 
and  you  never  will  give  me  a  cLance." 

"  Nonsense  !  You  have  been  away.  How  could  you 
expect  to  talk  to  me  if  you  went  away  ?" 

"  I  know  ;  but  I  had  to  go.  Besides,  you  wouldn't  have 
let  me  if  I  had  been  here." 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  the  parlor.     It  is  almost  twelve." 

"  No,  I  want  you  here." 

Cynthia  was  about  to  reply  defiantly,  but  something  in 
Neal's  eyes  made  her  drop  her  own.  She  stood  there  in 
silence. 

"  Cynthia,  do  you  remember  that  day  on  the  river  in 
the  rain?" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  you  called  me  then  ?" 

No  reply. 

"  Tell  me,  Cynth ;  do  you  remember  what  you  called 
me  ?" 

"  Yes,"  very  low. 

*'  You  called  mo  a  coward.  Do  you  think  I  am  one 
now  ?" 

«  Oh  no." 

"  But  you  also  said  you  had  faith  in  me,  Cynthia ;  and  in 
Philadelphia  that  spring  I  told  you  I  was  going  to  prove 
to  you  that  I  was  worthy  of  your  faith.  Do  you  think  I 
have,  Cynthia?" 

"Yes,  Neal." 

He  said  nothing  for  a  minute.  Then  he  glanced  at  the 
old  clock  in  the  back  part  of  the  hall.  It  was  five  min- 
utes of  twelve. 

"  Come  to  the  hall  window,  Cynthia,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand,  and  Cynthia  went  with  him. 


I    WANT    TO    SPEAK    TO    VOU,   CYNTII  '" 


s  4  • 


"  That  other  New-year's  Eve  we  stood  here  and  looked 
out  on  the  snow  just  as  we're  doing  noAv.  Do  you  re- 
member ?" 

"  And  I  made  good  resolutions  which  I  never  kept," 
said  Cynthia,  finding  her  voice  at  last.  "  Oh,  Neal,  my 
bureau  drawers  are  just  as  untidy  and  my  tongue  is  just  as 
unruly  as  ever  !  I  make  the  same  good  resolutions  every 
New-year's  Eve,  but  I  always  break  them.  You  were 
wiser.  You  would  not  promise  that  night  when  I  wanted 
you  to,  but  you  have  done  a  great  deal  better  than  if  you 
had." 

"I  would  not  promise  when  I  should  have  done  so. 
But  won't  you  return  good  for  evil,  Cynthia,  and  promise 
me  something  ?  Promise  me  that  before  many  more  New- 
year's  Eves  have  come  and  gone  you  will  be  my  wife  !  For 
I  love  you — love  you,  Cynthia  !  I  have  loved  you  ever 
since  that  day  on  the  river  —  indeed,  long  before  that! 
Hark !  the  clock  is  beginning  to  strike.  Promise  before 
it  stops." 

And  Cynthia  promised. 

And  the  old  clock  struck  twelve,  as  it  had  done  thou- 
sands of  times  before,  and  the  old  year  died,  and  for  us 
the  story  is  finished.  But  for  Neal  and  Cynthia  a  new 
year  and  a  new  life  were  dawning,  and  for  them  the  story 
had  but  just  begun. 


THE    END 


^^        9iS717 
D337 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARV 


